


The Long Sad Tale of FedoraFreak

by thesunlitmaid



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Adventure, Comedy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2014-01-07
Packaged: 2017-12-03 18:31:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 53,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/701325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesunlitmaid/pseuds/thesunlitmaid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Overall, you have a pretty comfortable, happy life. You couldn′t ask for more. Well, except one thing. You wish that you could bond with your son more, and that is where the whole mess started. (repost from Fanfiction.net)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Caveat Emptor

You are Dr David Brinner.  
  
You are an English professor at a medium-sized college in Washington State somewhere. Your students think that you are, uh, eccentric, what with your old-timey clothes...  
  
Seriously, dude, what is with that fedora and three-piece suit? It′s too warm for that—wouldn′t you like to wear a nice polo and khakis, so you don′t overheat? ...No?  
  
Uh, anyway, your students think you′re kind of a weirdo, and maybe you are, but they don′t hate you. Despite your outlandish wardrobe and bizarre fixation on hats (how many other professors have a hat rack in their classroom, let alone two of them?), you are a good teacher. You grade fairly. You established a good tutoring program. Your lessons are clear, plain, and simple, and whenever you sense that a student does not understand, you take time out of your busy day to make sure they do. In this quest, you are assisted by your somewhat-apathetic teaching assistant, Jill. She is really just there as a part of the work-study program, and if there were an opening at the campus bookstore, she would have rather gone there instead, but there wasn′t, so she wound up here, in a job completely unrelated to her major.  
  
You live in a nice neighborhood, with nice neighbors. One of them, to your delight, is a similarly ′eccentric′ fellow with impeccable taste in hats and ties, and possessing an enviable collection of pipes. You often talk over the white picket fence separating your backyards and on Serious Business (the only social network for the dapper and discerning gentleman). Sometimes it is regarding said impeccable tastes and impressive collection, sometimes it is regarding the weather, sometimes it is regarding the other man′s son. He has done a good job of raising the child, who, as far as you have seen, is excitable and friendly, although he has inexplicably terrible taste in movies. Nevertheless, he is a good kid, and you have never minded having to watch him when your friend asked.  
  
You are a good-natured family man, although you are now sadly divorced from your dear wife, Lila, who now lives a couple of blocks over. You are trying to remain friends, and though it′s still pretty doggone awkward to see her around the grocery store, you both seem to be getting along okay, all things considered. Your twelve-year-old son, Kyle, thinks that you are a hopeless dweeb, for much the same reasons that your students think you are ′eccentric.′ When he visits, he is mostly absorbed in his Nintendo 3DS or fiddling around with his iPhone, paying little mind to your Important Lessons about true gentlemanly style and behavior.  
  
Kids these days and their computers.  
  
You just don′t understand it. But then again, you′ve never had much of a mechanical knack. Like, at all. Anything more complicated than a basic pocket calculator will resist and silently belittle your futile attempts to operate it. You are almost afraid to touch the computer in your office, lest you break it and have to pay for it; usually, you just let Jill take care of all that, since she seems to know what she′s doing. You don′t even bother typing up the syllabus at the beginning of the semester; you dictate it, and your trusty assistant types up a storm for you. All you have to do is retrieve them from the printer, which you are also certain bears a grudge against you and your bank account, with the way it goes through every conceivable color of ink so quickly.  
  
Overall, though, you have a pretty comfortable, happy life. You couldn′t ask for more.  
  
Well, except one thing.  
  
You wish that you could bond with your son more, and that is where the whole mess started.

* * *

  
  
It is nearly Kyle′s birthday, and you have no idea what to get him.  
  
You have gotten him some spiffy things the past couple of years—a small and serviceable gray fedora one year, a five-hundred-piece jigsaw puzzle of computer innards the next. You figured that you could both work on the puzzle together. Make it a father-son project. He could tell you just how the computer parts line up and how they work, and you could piece it together based on his knowledge. Because you liked puzzles and he liked computers, and most of his videogames had puzzles of some sort. It seemed like a natural combination, something you could both have fun with. You had warm fatherly daydreams of completing the puzzle with him, then shellacking it together and hanging it up in the hallway, next to the puzzle of a fine haberdashery that you completed with your own father at the same age.  
  
But that project fell through. He just wasn′t all that interested, and you didn′t want to press him into doing something he didn′t like or enjoy. So you let him go skateboarding outside with his school friends instead and quietly stored the puzzle box in Kyle′s overstuffed closet. Maybe some other day.  
  
This year, you want to get him something truly marvelous, something that he will love and treasure just as much as his iPhone or his Nintendo gadgets. However, you have no real clue what to get him. You ask the IT fellow at the university when he is in to update the office computer, and he shrugs before returning to his work, mumbling each step to himself as he sets up the equipment. Jill suggests getting the kid a T-shirt with his favorite cartoon character on it, or something. A bit plain, she tells you, but it′s useful, and every kid has some kind of lucky shirt or lucky socks or something. You appreciate her suggestion, but you don′t want to get Kyle just a boring old T-shirt! Thirteen is an important age, and you want to get him something truly spiffing. After all, it may be one of your last chances to spend time with him before he′s too grown-up to hang out with his old dad.  
  
So you discuss possible birthday presents with your neighbor while he is unrolling the garden hose to wash the car. You have never heard a bad idea out of this fine fellow, so you are keen to hear what he has to say.  
  
He suggests observing and taking a keen interest in Kyle′s interests. Perhaps the two of you can also bond through this interest! Just like he and John are bonding through the art and science of practical jokery. He is also thinking of giving the boy real stage magic lessons! The boy needs some cheering, he confides; he seems to be in a bit of a funk lately, if the angry scribbles on his walls and beloved posters are any indication. The boy is smart, and he catches on quick—it should be just the thing to bring him back on the sunny side of the street! ″Maybe I′ll even share some of my old tricks someday, like the one with the safe!″ he says brightly. ″You know, when he′s acquired enough man-grit.″ The neighbor fellow is simply one who does not have the time to be gloomy, and this is one of many things you appreciate about him. No matter how dire the circumstances, a true gentleman always maintains hope! ″So! What is your boy interested in, then?″  
  
″Computers and videogames, for the most part,″ you answer with a hopeless but good-natured chuckle. ″I′m afraid I am mired in square one, with little hope of escape.″  
  
He chuckles sympathetically. ″I suggest you find a way to obtain one of those online whatsits—the ones you play with other people! John has been planning to play one with his internet chums,″ he says cheerfully.  
  
″Oh?″ you ask.  
  
″Indeed! He is terribly excited about it. And I must confess, it sounds like good, clean fun.″ He shifts his stylish cherry-wood pipe to the other corner of his mouth, smiling as he looks up at the cloudless blue sky. ″Perhaps someday, we can play together! Fathers versus sons!″  
  
″That sounds fantastic, old friend!″ You smile as well, bolstered by your friend′s optimism. ″Might I be able to beg you for the name of the game?″  
  
″Er...″ The neighbor fellow pauses, thoughtfully tapping his index finger on the bulb of the pipe, trying to figure out the correct name. ″I am afraid I don′t quite recall, but it begins with S. Perhaps something like ′Sabre′?″  
  
″Sabre? A proper gentlemen′s dueling game, then?″ you ask, interested. You already like the sound of this. It sounds so much more proper and honorable than the types of games that Kyle usually plays, where his little computer-man has to hide in the shadows and garrote other little computer-men at random. So very unsporting! ″Why, that would be the most splendid thing.″  
  
″Indeed it would! Either way, though, I′m just glad to see the boy excited,″ he says. ″It′s been nice talking to you today, Doctor, but I must get going. The car needs washing.″ He motions to the dusty old car in the driveway, upon which John has doodled ′WASH ME′ with his finger, underneath a panicked, wide-mouthed stick figure.  
  
″Of course! I do apologize for holding you up,″ you say as you wave to your friend. ″Do be careful not to get your hat wet!″  
  
″Oh, of course not!″he replies, waving back as he picks up the garden hose with his other hand and rolls it over towards the car.  
  
You turn to leave as well, eager to collect your Wallet and do some birthday-present shopping down at the Maple Valley Mall.  
  
Once inside your small but respectable house, you take a moment to swap out your hats on the rack near the door, placing your dark brown lazing-about-the-house bowler on one oak prong and picking up your fine black shopping fedora instead. You have a wide range of hats for every occasion. There is one for lazing around the house. There is one for shopping. There is one for Christmas shopping. There is one for fun Sunday afternoon drives through the countryside. There is one for picnics. One for weddings. One for funerals. A whole lot of hats, is what I′m saying. It′s not so much a hat rack as a hat Christmas tree, with multiple layers of hats upon hats.  
  
The ones you like the most, though, are the two up top. They are important hats! Several birthdays ago, you took Kyle and Lila to a local minor-league baseball game, before the team moved and the stadium was largely abandoned. You never liked baseball very much (you were never one for sports), but Lila and Kyle did at the time, so you treated the whole family and you bought matching hats for everyone as a souvenir. Your team lost, but it was still a good day, and you all had a great time.  
  
You make sure that your appearance is suitably dapper in the big hallway mirror. Once you are satisfied with the angle of your shopping hat, you smile at yourself, then pick up the Wallet from the table underneath the mirror and proceed on out the door.  
  
The Wallet is, of course, the only logical Fetch Modus for the discerning gentleman. You′ve tried a few others before—you thought that you would enjoy the Puzzle Modus, and you accidentally stumbled into the Fibonacci Heap Modus and couldn′t change it back—but it went about as well as your attempts to use the smart-phone and the computer. You had to get poor long-suffering Jill to fix it just so you could pry your lesson plans out and start teaching. You apologized profusely, of course, for holding up her busy day, and bought her a bag of gummy bears to make it up to her, since it was a hard task. Although she is much better than you are at technological stuff, that isn′t saying much; there are probably well-trained dogs better suited to such tasks. She can manage all of your class databases and the grading program with little difficulty, but she has no idea how to code or program, and she is not very good at math beyond about a ninth-grade level. So she had a tough time, but she persevered and managed to wrestle the Fibonacci Heap Modus back into a civilized man′s Fetch Modus.  
  
So you have stuck with what works ever since.  
  
You even got her to lock it so you couldn′t change it again even if you were so tempted.  
  
With your Sylladex all properly stocked and ready to go, and your hat at just the right angle, and your tie perfectly smoothed down, you shuffle out to the garage, hop in your perfectly respectable station wagon, and chug away at a reasonable speed completely within the legal limits posted by the state government.

* * *

  
  
The gangly teenager at the game store has no idea what game you are talking about, and explaining it seems an increasingly futile business. He merely gives you a puzzled stare before offering you a different game—another one of those unsporting affairs where you must garrote other players′ little computer-men from the shadows before they garrote your own. He advises you that it is totally the hottest game on the market right now, and it is available for pre-order. And if you pre-order it, you get a nifty keychain. It is a tiny but impressively detailed replica of the grizzled, knife-wielding fellow on the box.  
  
You politely decline and genuinely wish him a good day before heading on to the next game store, and the next, and one more out in a largely-abandoned strip mall towards the edge of town. None of them know what you′re talking about, either, although they also offer you different games Kyle might enjoy. You decline each one of them, feeling somewhat miffed that this game is apparently nowhere to be found on God′s green Earth.  
  
You are at a loss. You have no idea what you′re doing wrong here. It is possible, you suppose, that you misheard the title. Or perhaps your elucidation was just not up to snuff today (although you discard that possibility after a few moments′ deliberation, because one thing you pride yourself on is being so plain and clear in your speech). You just don′t know, and you sit in the station wagon pondering for awhile.  
  
After a few minutes, you pick up your phone and call Jill to explain your dilemma. You have never seen her playing a videogame before, yet you are quite hopeful that she can help. One of the few times you have ever seen her smiling is when you proposed a class scavenger hunt, largely as an excuse to go outside on an absolutely gorgeous late-spring day. She didn′t join a team—no one would have her—but she steamrolled the competition anyway and brought all of the items to the gazebo where you waited, grinning so big you could see all of her teeth. She is good at finding things, so you have faith that she can find this game for you, no sweat.  
  
″Sure, Boss,″ she replies.  
  
″Much appreciated. My apologies for bothering you. I′ll talk t—″ you start, only to be interrupted.  
  
″Okay, got it. It′s called Sburb, not Sabre. It only went into beta about a day ago—which might be why you had trouble finding it. Because it hasn′t hit a wide release yet,″ she says. You wonder what manner of sorcery she had to perform to get an answer this quickly, but you don′t really care, because you have answers now! Maybe she can even provide a nudge in the right direction. ″But the good thing is, it′s not a closed beta. Not very open, either, but it looks like it can be obtained fairly easily if you jump through the right hoops.″  
  
″I shall prepare myself to hop through whatever hoops are necessary,″ you say pleasantly. You have no idea what she is talking about, but you don′t want to interrupt her. Some of it may be important.  
  
″Give me a minute.″ She taps away at her computer. The sound of keys clacking is like machine-gun fire. ″You can sign up on a particular website and have a chance of getting an invite code during the month. It′ll spawn a few different invite codes, so you can invite your friends along with you. Then you all report to the website again, and it will allow you to download both copies of the game. You need both a server and a client player.″  
  
″Uh?″ you say intelligently.  
  
″So do you want me to sign you up for this?″  
  
″Please! That would be lovely,″ you say.  
  
More rapid-fire machine-gun typing. ″There you go, Boss. Anything else you need?″  
  
″Not this very moment, but thank you for offering... Say! Would you like to run through the game with me? So I can get a little practice in?″ You smile brightly, thinking this sounds like the cleverest idea. You will be able to impress your son with how good you are at the game, and then maybe he won′t treat visiting you like going to a particularly depressing wake.  
  
″Sure, I got nothing better to do.″  
  
″Of course I would never expect you to sacrifice your valuable time for free,″ you offer politely, as if you didn′t just hear her accept the initial invitation without hesitation. ″I am prepared to compensate you for your kind assistance.″  
  
″Cool.″  
  
″I appreciate it! Thank you so much, Jill, you′re a dear.″  
  
″No problem at all, Boss.″  
  
″I shall talk to you soon, I trust?″  
  
You press the ′end call′ button and carefully tuck your phone back into your pocket before starting the car up so you can head home.

* * *

  
  
_The following Serious Business has been submitted in a frank and forthright manner for FedoraFreak′s judicious appraisal_ :  
  
 _officeurchin1280_ – visited new store that gives out free silk ties with each dress shirt. good quality ties.  
  
 _wellPressedAttire_ – officeurchin1280: pl advise name of business, location, hours. wish to patronize this fine establishment upon return to States.  
  
 _officeurchin1280_ – WellPressedAttire: sending helpful map, also photo of impressive, pleasing dress shirt selection.  
  
 _grayslacks66_ – officeurchin1280: would like to inquire regarding slacks selection at aforementioned establishment.  
  
 _officeurchin1280_ – grayslacks66: will take second look ASAP. neglected to inspect slacks, as need for dress shirt was pressing emergency.  
  
 _grayslacks66_ – officeurchin1280: much appreciated.  
  
(You are glad that your friends all seem to be having fantastic and exciting days! You might as well add your own exciting update. Maybe you can even recruit a couple of your colleagues to help you practice! The more, the merrier. You will be the best Sburb player ever, at this rate! Won′t Kyle be impressed? You sure hope so!)  
  
 _FedoraFreak has submitted the following Serious Business in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – obtained birthday present for son. hope that he will enjoy it.  
  
 _grayslacks66_ – FedoraFreak: wonderful news. offer congratulations.  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – wish to request assistance in setting up present for son′s use.  
  
 _wellPressedAttire_ – FedoraFreak: would love to, but am currently on business trip elsewhere. offer my sincerest apologies.  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – wellPressedAttire: apologies unnecessary, but graciously accepted nonetheless.  
  
 _WellPressedAttire_ – FedoraFreak: thank you.  
  
 _officeurchin1280_ – FedoraFreak: would be glad to offer assistance, if possible.  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – officeurchin1280: require assistance, guidance, in videogame.  
  
 _officeurchin1280_ – FedoraFreak: pl email with details, may be able to assist.  
  
(Splendid! It seems you have obtained one more player for your game. Perhaps you can have him confer with Jill to get things up and running, once you have obtained the codes for the game.)  
  
 _grayslacks66_ – FedoraFreak: unfortunately, unable to assist. also apologize most sincerely.  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – grayslacks66: apologies again unnecessary, again graciously accepted nonetheless. require one more player.  
  
 _2busy4this_ – wish to partake as well. pl elab  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – 2busy4this: splendid. will email codes and details ASAP.  
  
 _2busy4this_ – wait what are we talking about  
  
 _2busy4this_ – i wanted directions to the intriguing business mentioned by officeurchin1280  
  
 _2busy4this_ – looked away to tend to some tax forms for just a moment. now fear i am quite lost re: current subject.  
  
You email him anyway, hoping he might join in your fun. 2Busy4this has always seemed like a fascinating gent. Surely he has a lot to offer your motley band of adventurers! What a game this will be! Playing with your best friends, your trusty assistant, and, soon, your beloved son. You can think of no better outcome, and you are enduringly grateful to the neighbor fellow for sharing his advice. Say! There′s an idea, expanding on one of his earlier flashes of brilliance. Maybe you can get your neighbor to play, too! And he could invite his son along as well. A fine kettle of fish that would be!  
  
So you submit a private item of Serious Business to him—good old pipefan413—and hope that he answers soon, just in case 2busy4this is, in fact, too busy for this.  
  
You luck out and find the codes sitting in your email inbox on April 13th, just four days before Kyle′s thirteenth birthday. That gives you plenty of time to get in some practice. You email them around to everyone you asked to help—Jill, officeurchin1280, and 2busy4this. Pipefan413 had to politely decline your request, as April 13th is his own son′s birthday, and he wished to spend all day baking and crafting wonderful presents. You understand completely. Of course you would not wish to tear your fine friend away from his son! You buy the boy a carrot cake cupcake from the corner bakery and send it over with your sincere best wishes, hoping that Pipefan413 does manage to cheer him up through their shared interest in magic and japery. You hope that you have a similar degree of success with your own boy on his birthday. Although you are not quite as good at baking as Pipefan413 is (that is to say, there are probably well-trained dogs out there that are better than you). You may ask him to give you a hand with that.  
  
Jill cautiously walks you through installing both copies of the game, trying to parse the scant few instructions provided in the emails, and you relay the most relevant and important information to your colleagues. She claims that this will be a very cooperative affair, and everybody will need to pool their efforts and resources to help each of your little computer-men along. You can′t have a single cog out of line on this fine-tuned machine. You like this game already; you appreciate a good sense of order and efficiency almost more than anything else in the world.  
  
Over the course of your collective lunch periods, the details are hammered out, and Jill admirably coordinates everything for you. You make a note to buy her a bag of those nice gummy bears for her trouble. The arrangement is this: 2busy4this will be your server player, you will be Jill′s, and officeurchin1280 will be 2busy4this'. Once your systems are all daisy-chained together, you will be able to begin playing in earnest. You are excited to a reasonable degree, perfectly suited to a fine and dapper gentleman such as yourself, and you are certain your colleagues are as well. (You are not certain about Jill′s levels of enthusiasm, or possible lack thereof, but you hope she will end up having fun either way.)  
  
You confer with your colleagues to schedule your game session for five-o-clock that very evening. Quite fortunately, it seems as though everybody finds this an acceptable proposition.

* * *

  
  
_FedoraFreak has submitted the following Serious Business in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :  
  
 _FedoraFreak_ – wish to advise participating colleagues that we are prepared to commence incredibly exciting activities. wish best of luck to esteemed gentlemen.  
  
 _Officeurchin1280_ – FedoraFreak 2busy4this: wish you fellows the same. may the best gent win!


	2. The Final Countdown

You fire up both copies of the game, eager to start playing. It seems you are the first one to do so. Jill follows quickly afterward, though, and apologizes for her tardiness. She has had trouble sleeping the past couple of nights—weird and ominous nightmares, she′d rather not talk about it—and decided to nap a little, but wound up oversleeping. Also, she was unable to find a walkthrough on the internet as she had hoped, but you don′t mind one whit, you tell her. A gentleman enjoys adventure and exploration, to a reasonable degree, because he always enjoys expanding his horizons, which is precisely what you are doing. Won′t Kyle be surprised with his dear old Dad when he finds that you can run a computer and play a game without blowing anything up?

Your other two colleagues also log on, also with sincere and polite apologies for being slightly late. You accept them graciously. They′re all here now, and that′s the important thing. You′re just glad that you′re all finally ready to play! So exciting!

...but there′s one more thing to tend to first.

Your computer chimes with a little prompt, asking you to allocate your Strife Specibus before going any further with the game. You do not know why.

You ponder going in with nothing, because it seems pretty pointless and irrelevant, but the game will not allow you to move on until you allocate something. You attempt to click out of the prompt several times, but it refuses. Each time, it makes a disagreeable beeping noise and flashes red.

Mildly annoyed, you rise from your expensive ergonomic computer chair and study your finely-appointed study for an object to allocate. You could just grab something completely at random and just get on with it, but putting something into your Strife Deck is an important decision. You have to either be very certain that you want that particular object in your Strife Deck, or very creative with stretching the definition of whatever weapon you have chosen.

You hem and haw extensively, ignoring the little jingling messages popping up on your computer behind you.

You have never burdened yourself with such a thing before. Since you hate to dirty your hands (or, God forbid, scuff your finely-polished leather shoes—or even worse, wrinkle your perfectly pressed suit), you go out of your way to avoid such childish, pointless scuffles. You do not think that you could be held responsible for whatever may transpire in a confrontation with a hypothetical wardrobe-ruffling ruffian. And besides, any gentleman worth his salt uses his words and his wits to defuse a dangerous situation, without resorting to violence.

You cannot find anything worth adding to your Strife Deck, but upon scanning the back of an empty card in said deck, you find that there is an option for allocating Fistkind. That seems an agreeable option. You do not have to lose any valuable items this way, and you can continue your game with your compatriots without further fuss.

Besides, you doubt that it will have any effect.

It′s just a silly child′s game, after all. What does it matter if you equip Fistkind, or Stungunkind, or Pizzactrkind, or Mailboxkind? It doesn′t, not one jot. It isn′t as if you′ll be slapping enemies around in real life. Your little pixel self in the game will, and you are sure he will soon be equipped with some kind of splendid sword, as most heroes in stories are.

You successfully allocate Fistkind to your Strife Specibus, then sit back down in your computer chair to answer some messages.

* * *

You first look in on Jill′s little house in the game. It seems like she has been quite busy in decorating it. You marvel at the cleverly-implemented furniture made of random objects—like the construction-yard cable spool that is being used as a coffee-table, or the cinderblock-and-plywood-plank setup that serves as a computer desk for little Pixel-Jill. However, you can′t say you aren′t just very slightly unnerved by some of the other décor. The painted plastic skulls on the milk-crate shelves, you are familiar with; they′re just like the plastic skulls that decorate the desk on her half of the office at school. It′s the paintings on the walls that are unnerving. Like little portraits of Hell. Beautiful, and undoubtedly painted by an amazingly skillful artist, but still a bit too creepy for your own tastes. Your own tastes run towards the more famous Van Gogh prints and bulldogs playing poker.

However, you _are_ terribly impressed by how she has apparently customized her pixellated copy to look and act just like her. She has the same auburn hair in the same loose, hastily-tied braid, the same stout, hippy figure, the same dark freckles on the same olive-toned skin. She even shares the same body-language. Little Pixel-Jill is sitting at her computer the same way the genuine article sits at hers—slouched over with her face too close to the glowing screen, her elbows resting on her knees and her chin resting on one hand while the other fiddles around with the mouse. Occasionally the mouse-hand moves to adjust her glasses. What impressive programming, you think.

You hope that she will tell you her secrets about mastering the game so quickly.

You fiddle around with the toolbar on top of the screen, until it displays something called ′the Phernalia Registry.′ Listed in the Phernalia Registry are several fanciful objects with equally-delightful names. The Alchemiter. The Cruxtruder. The Totem Lathe. The Punch Designix. You smile at the silly names approvingly. Most of the equipment that Kyle uses in his other games comes with threatening and gloomy names, like ′the Hellflame-thrower 666′ or ′the Queasy-art Bone-Blender.′ This seems like a much more healthy and friendly alternative.

You suppose that, based on the names, this game is much more based on building and creativity than killing and maiming, and that makes you very happy. Like all parents, you think your child is a bubbling wellspring of creative potential waiting to be tapped, and you sometimes fear he is wasting it. This will be a good and healthy outlet for that. Also, it will be much kinder on your stomach. Whenever he is playing on his Gamestation in the living room, you sometimes look up from your puzzles or your newspaper and see Kyle reducing some poor swirl of digital rubbish to a fine red mist of simulated blood, and you sometimes have to excuse yourself to lie down. You have never been good at handling the sight of blood or other bodily fluids. It′s just a little too much for your weak stomach.

You click on the Cruxtruder first, because you like the sound of the name the most. A gigantic boxy machine with a large covered pipe set in the middle of it appears beneath your cursor, hovering over the amusingly bohemian little apartment. You drag it over to an empty space, careful not to squish Pixel-Jill and her little pixel laptop, then click your mouse to drop it. The machine plops down between the spool-table and the makeshift desk. The screen shakes and jiggles, and Pixel-Jill scrambles off of her chair to inspect it.

Next you drop off the Alchemiter, further towards the back of the room, near a narrow picture-window. You chuckle warmly as the little pixellated version of your assistant flails and scrambles over to the new machine, then starts looking back and forth between them, her sloppy braid swinging back and forth.

She jumps and scrambles around again when you drop off the Totem Lathe, propped up against an empty wall. You are again impressed by whoever thought to program such realistic confusion into the little avatars. You wonder if your guy will be able to do the same thing. You wonder when you will get to make your little computer-guy and build his house! You hope it′s soon. It strikes you as mildly strange that that wasn′t the first thing you did, but you figure you′ll play along and see where it takes you. No fuss, no stress.

It′s just a game, after all.

For the sake of easy communication with your trusty assistant and others, you have, against your better judgment, installed the Pesterchum instant-messaging application on your computer. You do not like it one bit, but you suppose that it will be easier to communicate with your cohorts during the game in real-time, rather than broadcasting a series of general status updates that they may not see, while at the same time rudely infringing upon the innocent timelines of uninterested parties.

However, that will not stop you from doing that exact thing, considering the circumstances that will later arise.

* * *

DuskyDahlia (DD) began pestering FedoraFreak (FF)! –

DD: uh hey boss

FF: Jill! Hello, there! I see you′ve already developed quite the knack for this game. Might I say that I love the way that you have detailed your little pixel-lady and her humble abode! It fits you perfectly! The paintings are odd, I confess, but I′m getting used to them the more I look at them.

DD: they′re Beksinski prints

DD: old Polish artist

DD: i think they′re all gorgeous. otherwise i wouldn′t have bought them i guess

DD: anyway i′ll save you my art lecture for another time. i′ve got some important and not particularly uplifting news about this game

FF: Oh dear. I was keen on listening to your art lecture.

DD: don′t worry, i′ll keep it under my hat for another day

DD: it looks like we′ve got lots of things to do and limited time to do them in

FF: I′m afraid I don′t quite understand.

* * *

While she is typing up an elaboration on her cryptic news, you feel your own house shake under the force of three heavy successive blows, as if you′ve been caught in a very slow and politely indecisive earthquake.

The framed photographs on the wall rattle and clatter on their hooks.

Some of the heavy books on the shelves tumble and slam open on the hardwood floor of your study.

Little flakes of plaster snow down from the ceiling and rest on the silk houseplants decorating your desk.

Absently, you brush the houseplants off before scrambling out of the room and trotting up the stairs to figure out the source of the sounds.

Leaving your study takes you out to the main hall. It is wide, yet cozy. The big mirror and the bureau stacked with silk houseplants sit on one side, and the stairway leading up to the second floor sits on the other. The wall beneath the stairway is covered in pictures. Some are family photographs. Some are pictures that Kyle drew when he was younger. You take a second to straighten a crayon drawing of a hat-wearing stick-figure that has been knocked askew by the commotion. Some of your hats have tumbled off of the racks as well. You also take a second to dust them off and hang them back up where they belong. No matter how strange the circumstances, there is no excuse for leaving your surroundings in squalor.

Once you have straightened everything properly, you peer into the open doorway between the front hall and the living room. There is nothing out of place in the living room, fortunately, so you go back out into the hallway and look through the other doorway at the bottom of the stairs, which leads to the dining room. A few flower petals have fallen from the tasteful spring centerpiece and onto the simple yellow runner. Feeling that this is an acceptable loss, you ignore it for the time being and go upstairs to investigate further.

You pause for just another second upon hearing a similar ruckus from next door. You want to go and check to make sure the neighbor and his son are okay, but Jill indicated that time is probably a pressing issue, so you think you would do well not to dally. You do, however, give a second of silent thanks that Kyle is a few blocks away at Lila′s house right now, safe from whatever the thumping noise is.

On the landing between the first and second floor is a Cruxtruder, similar to the one that you dropped into Pixel-Jill′s apartment, save for the spirographed cap at the end of the pipe. The spirograph on Pixel-Jill′s pipe was dark red and quite simple, resembling a child′s drawing of a flower; the spirograph on this gadget is somewhat more spiny and complex, colored a dark blue-gray, the color of the sky when it′s threatening to rain. Your mouth drops open in a most undignified manner. You stare for quite some time, looking like a slack-jawed yokel rather than the proper gent you present yourself as.

After awhile, you reach out to spin the little wheel at the side of the pipe, as if to make sure the machine before you is really there. The wheel grinds like a ratchet— _click click click_ —and the cap pops off, glancing off the ceiling (causing another little snow of ceiling-plaster onto the dark blue stair carpet) and tumbling down the stairs onto the hardwood floor near the front door. The uncapped pipe now holds a dark blue-gray dowel of some sort, and a strange floating blinking _thing_. Inside the floating orb is a swirling pattern of lights. When you blink, you can see the after-image of the too-bright light burned into your eyes, and you see the same spirograph pattern that was on the top of the pipe. You remember going on a ′folklore tour′ in England with Lila, and you remember what the tour guide said about the will-o-the-wisp, the fairy fire that would lure the unaware to their doom. You give the spirographed orb a suspicious, distrusting glare and resolutely stomp upstairs away from it.

In your haste, you do not even notice the ticking countdown clock on the side of the Cruxtruder.

The will-o-the-wisp follows you upstairs, despite your display of defiant and resolute ignorance towards its presence. No matter how much you try to ignore it, though, it is still bouncing there at the edge of your vision, flashing like captured lightning in the lens of your silver-framed reading glasses. You take the reading glasses off, fold them, and stuff them neatly in the breast pocket of your crisp white dress shirt, then peer into Kyle′s room. There is another large machine perched there next to his perpetually-unmade bed with the Pokemon sheets. You think it might be the Totem Lathe, if you remember the Phernalia Registry′s listings right. Fortunately, it doesn′t seem to have crushed any of Kyle′s things, so you breathe a sigh of relief, then try fruitlessly to tug it out of the way. That will be something to explain to him when he comes to visit on his birthday. ′Oh dear, I fear your room has been halfway blocked by a giant machine of unclear purpose. It happened when I was trying to practice the game I bought you. You will have to sleep on the rollout bed in the living room, I′m afraid.′ He probably won′t be too fussed; it′ll be close to the kitchen so he can snack, and he can play his videogames all night if he puts his headphones on.

You visit your own bedroom next and find the Alchemiter blocking off your wall of bookshelves. It has also crushed your favorite hand-held steam press and knocked your hat-rack over and left your favorite old fedora crumpled—the one you have had since you were a teenager. Lots of good memories associated with that hat. You met Lila wearing that hat. You married her wearing that hat. It was the only hat you took on your honeymoon. It has been present for all of your important life events, like a valued and trusted friend. Not to mention it fit the most perfectly of any of your fine and stylish hats. It fit your head like a glove. It will take another twenty years to wear in a hat to that prime and perfect condition. You pick it up and hold it to your heart reverently, then glare daggers at the Alchemiter. You have half a mind to kick the machine, but you do not want to break your foot or, worse, scuff your finely-polished shoes, so you instead shake your fist at it and call it a deplorable and ungentlemanly name not worth repeating to polite audiences.

The little blue-gray will-o-the-wisp flickers at the edge of your vision again. You think it is mocking you. Frustrated, you chuck your rumpled and unsightly fedora at it, tell it to buzz off, and stomp out of your room to go back downstairs to your study and stew for awhile. Not to mention you still have to find out what Jill was trying to tell you.

It is only then that you notice the soft, persistent _peep-peep-peep_ of the countdown clock on the Cruxtruder. You kneel down to examine it. You have no idea what number it was counting down from, nor what it is counting down for, but right now, it stands at four minutes and thirteen seconds exactly. You frown, puzzled.

″Now what manner of devilry is this?″ you say aloud.

The machine goes ′ _ping_!′ and releases a card into a slot at the side. You pick it up and frown at it. It′s punched with a number of neat rectangular holes. Like...

″A computer punch card,″ you say. You are not quite old enough to have been around for punch-card computers, but you remember watching some old TV shows that would occasionally reference them. You certainly can′t use it with your fancy modern PC. So why is it here? What is its purpose? You scratch your head for awhile before noticing the big blue-gray chunk of material sticking out of the pipe of the Cruxtruder. You set the card down on the stairs going up one stair and standing on tiptoe to pull out the cylinder. It has a moderate weight to it, and it looks like thick stained glass. You hold it up to your eye to see if you can see through it, but it′s almost opaque. Beautiful thing. You look back down at the punched card. Its edges have the same color as the glass-like material. They must be related, perhaps used together somehow.

Your phone rings, and you shift the cylinder to your side like a child in order to pluck the phone from your pocket. Much to your surprise, it′s Jill calling; you are usually the one to call her, not the other way around. You hope that she is well. You press the little green ′answer′ button.

″Good evening!″

″Jeez, don′t scare me like that, boss.″ You are concerned that she sounds concerned—partly because you simply don′t like seeing your friends in distress, and partly because of what′s been going on. You hope it doesn′t get weirder. Or worse. ″You just kind of disappeared in the middle of my instructions. I thought you had snuffed it or something.″

″I′m quite well at the moment, but I′m afraid some very strange things have happened. So my attention has been otherwise occupied.″ You frown. ″Why did you think I was dead, if you don′t mind my asking?″ She typically has a rather grim and deadpan sense of humor, but you get the feeling she wasn′t joking this time.

″Lots of things to do, limited time to do them in,″ she says, sounding a bit agitated. ″But the gist of it is, I doubt that countdown clock on the pipe machine thing is going to blast out confetti and streamers when it hits all zeroes. So we have to figure out... I dunno, we have to figure something out, though.″

″I concur,″ you say, nodding. ″I suppose our first challenge is to find out how to stop the countdown?″

″I guess so?″

″They don′t give you much in the way of clues or hints, do they?″ you sigh, looking from the lump of glass to the card.

″Well, there′s only three machines, and one of them spat the stuff out, so I guess we can eliminate that one from the running. But the other two both have spaces for the glass. So we could flip a coin and see where that takes us. But that would be a waste of time and materials that we just don′t have. Hang on a second. Text your friends and tell them to wait until I figure it out. Please?″

″Well, I can′t refuse the magic word!″ you say pleasantly.

You reach for your PDA and fire up the Serious Business application. You feel bad for cluttering up other people′s timelines with your gaming nonsense, but it′s something of a pressing matter, so you don′t want to waste the extra few seconds running downstairs to use Pesterchum on your desktop. Instead, you climb upstairs towards the other two machines as you frantically tap the screen of your PDA with the little gray stylus, informing your colleagues as much as you can.

* * *

_FedoraFreak has submitted the following Serious Business in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :

_FedoraFreak_ – do not wish to alarm esteemed peers. do wish to apologize for cluttering timelines with private items of frivolous business. however, rather pressing business has come to my attention.

_Officeurchin1280_ – hope this concerns appearance of perplexing and unnerving devices in my domicile.

_FedoraFreak_ – indeed it does. esteemed assistant currently determining how to proceed. further advice forthcoming.

_2busy4this_ – wish to express regards and appreciation to FedoraFreak′s esteemed assistant.

_FedoraFreak_ – will ensure that she receives them.

_grayslacks66_ – prepared to consult technical department and share advice if needed.

_WellPressedAttire_ – do keep us posted, FF. willing to offer any technological assistance possible.

_FedoraFreak_ – ty all for concerns, regards, advice. will certainly continue to update progress.

* * *

You are now Jill Darrow, and you have a dilemma on your hands.

You have to figure out which parts go into which machine, how they fit in, and why. And you have to do it quickly, because that ticking clock on the Cruxtruder is still counting down to God-only-knows-what-but-it-can′t-be-good. You sure hope it doesn′t blow up. You can barely afford the closet-sized studio that currently serves as your living quarters; you certainly can′t afford to rent out a new one elsewhere. And good luck explaining it to the landlord. He doesn′t have a sense of humor _or_ a sense of basic human compassion. He would probably assume you were cooking meth in the bathroom like your neighbors did and send the cops in after you.

This predicament is not helped in any way by the glowing, ghostly creature following you around and spouting impenetrable riddles. You wish he came with a mute button, so he could just sit in the corner and look cool. As much as you can′t stand his constant dark chuckling and stupidly cryptic Rod-Serling-on-acid speech pattern, he really adds to the whole atmosphere of your apartment, you must confess. He would make a decent replacement for the ornately-painted coyote-skull that went into his creation, too; that was your favorite skull, lovingly cleaned to a sparkling white and painted over the course of two straight weeks. You accidentally knocked over its shelf in surprise when the Cruxtruder released the glass, the card, and the glowing orb. The skull went flying and disappeared into the orb with a flash of light, and out came this joker.

″If only you knew, little sister, if only you knew. The path that you embark will only lead to your doom,″ he says. The ghostly bones of his skull-face seem to creak and groan, as if he is trying to grin even bigger than his sharp, perpetually-bared teeth allow. ″If only you knew, little sister, if only you knew. You′re playing a game of gods now, not a game of fools.″

You have no time for his bizarrely stilted and quite frankly patronizing nonsense.

You sit on the back of your hideous, threadbare orange tweed couch, your eyes shifting back and forth between the two remaining machines. Sometimes they flick back to the ticking countdown clock on the Cruxtruder. You are hunched up into your usual thinking position, with your elbows on your knees and your chin on your hand. Your other hand is curled around your cellphone in an iron death-grip as you ponder the choices and their possible outcomes.

″I tell you, little sister, there is still time to go back. Still time to set things right.″

″Oh, hush,″ you tell the sprite. Maybe what he says is true, but you don′t want to take a chance. You again picture your apartment exploding and the police leading you away in handcuffs while the landlord smugly looks on. You picture your skulls and books and Beksinski prints all piled up in the dumpster at the edge of the squat pink stucco apartment building and shudder in horror. True, you might have fished up all of your furniture from there, but like hell are you going to see it go back.

You drum your fingers on the top of the glass cylinder, frowning in thought.

Both of the remaining machines have a place for the card and the glass to go. You do not know if you are to use the materials in just one machine or in both of them, and if you do use the materials in both machines, which one goes in which machine first? Do you use one object in each machine? A real puzzler. You have three minutes and three seconds to figure it all out and inform your co-players.

″Think, Jill, think,″ you mumble aloud. ″What does a lathe do? It turns things. I guess it carves them too? How can you carve glass? You don′t carve glass, you blow it into shape, right?″ Then again, it isn′t exactly glass; you′re merely referring to it as that because you don′t know what it actually is. It′s some kind of material you′ve never seen before in your life. ″Hmm...″

″The lathe of heaven spins endlessly, turning each of us upon its wheel, carving out its bloody designs into our skins, our souls,″ the sprite advises. ″What will the lathe carve you into?″

You decide to take this as a tacit nudge in the right direction, even if it was only intended as an infuriatingly stupid platitude. You hop off the back of the couch to jam the glass cylinder into the right space on the Totem Lathe, following it up by slotting the card into the side and cluelessly pawing at the buttons on the face of the machine. If it′s the wrong choice, you guess you′ll just inform Dr Brinner and his friends of the correct machine so they can get on with their game, and you′ll catch up later. Somehow. Assuming you aren′t in prison for exploding your apartment with inexplicable and whimsically-named machinery. That would be some start for your career in law enforcement. Even if you do not aspire to a very high post, nor one that requires a large amount of responsibility, it would still be a black mark on your record you don′t need.

You smile brightly when the machine starts moving. It makes a loud whirring noise as the arm on top unfolds to carve the glass lump with similarly-colored pointed crystals. The way the carving crystals move reminds you of the waves on a particularly difficult polygraph test—it′s all wide, loose waves, whipping back and forth like crazy. A prized and well-loved action figure topples from one of your milk-crate shelves, but you hardly notice; you are busy observing, frowning at the Totem Lathe in keen concentration.

After awhile, it stops and the arm folds back up. You glance at the Cruxtruder′s countdown clock. Two minutes and twenty-four seconds to go. You better wrap this up real quick.

You examine the carved glass and conclude, judging by the still-running countdown clock, that there is still more to do with the material. Logically, the only thing left to do is pop it in the Alchemiter and see where it goes from there. So you do just that. You still have no idea how to actually operate the damn thing, though, so again you just kind of flail around at the machine′s interface like a total dope until it starts running the way you want it. Such is your so-called technical expertise.

″Dr B?″ you say into the phone, which has been quiet for quite some time now. However, you still hear some muffled noises from the other end of the line, so your boss has not hung up yet.

″Jill? Are you back? Do you have good news?″

″Yes. Stick the card and the glass in the Totem Lathe, then stick the carved glass onto the Alchemiter. Further updates forthcoming,″ you say. You can hear him tapping away on his PDA with his stylus, quickly sending messages to his friends. ″We′ve got two minutes to go, so please hurry.″

″Certainly! I don′t want my house to blow up. I have to host Kyle′s birthday party somewhere,″ your boss says cheerfully. ″And I would prefer it if I never had to go back to Chuckie Cheese′s as long as I live, thank you very much.″ He chuckles in that doofy-but-kind-of-endearing way, like a good-natured and somewhat eccentric uncle.

″Is there a story behind that?″ you ask, watching the Alchemiter scan the wavy lump of glass.

″Nothing particularly interesting, I′m afraid!″

″Pity. Would have liked to hear it. Your Chuckie Cheese story for my Beksinski art lecture. Hold up a second, the Alchemiter is makin′ noises.″

The machine beeps a few times, and then, in a flash of light, a pomegranate appears. The gizmo returns to its idle state. You carefully climb up the machine to the pad with the fractal triangles carved into it and pick up the pomegranate. It is made out of the same strange material as the little vase carved by the Totem Lathe. That was kind of anticlimactic. You were expecting some big and fancy mad-science production. Still, you could use a snack, so you squeeze between the wall and the Alchemiter in the middle of the floor and head to the kitchen to cut it open, setting the cellphone down on the counter. By the sounds of it, Dr B is busy with his Totem Lathe. You are sure that those other dudes are, too, and you breathe a sigh of relief. Progress at last.

″Clever, little sister.″

You finally look up at your sprite, because his voice has suddenly changed. His whole shape has changed, in fact. The basic shape of the skull, the painted designs, and the enormous fanged grin all remain the same, but there are strange additions. Narrow pointed bone spikes form a wide, looping M above the still-empty eye sockets, and the grin is now flanked by four bony, clicking mandibles—one on top of each jaw, each tipped with jutting sharp fangs. The mandibles stretch and retract as he watches you, creating a slow _click-click-click_ noise that almost echoes around the room. Long flesh-braids with beads and rings of gold have grown out of the skull, creating a soft, rattling undertone to the click of his mandibles. The fragile ghostly bones of the sprite′s upper-body are protected by plates of armor connected with strong wire-mesh. The only thing that remains wholly unchanged is the ghostly tail that serves as the lower half of his body. It propels him around as he paces like a caged tiger, empty eye sockets directed straight at you.

You sigh, exasperated, and bury your face in your palm. It′s clearly gone and absorbed your beloved Greyback Predator action figure in addition to your beloved coyote-skull. You′re just losing all of your most valuable possessions to this stupid thing today. You make a mental note to glue your stuff to the bottom of the milk-crates before anything else falls into it. You don′t want to lose your Cenobite figures or the plastic painted skulls that all of your friends from Wilted Roses (the only social networking website for the discerning spooky goth-child—in your defense, you joined the site eight years ago, when you were fifteen) have sent you over the years.

You don′t say anything. You just sigh and rub your forehead. Hopefully he′ll be quieter now...

″If only you had heeded my warning, little sister. If only you knew what you have done. Now that you have set your feet upon this path, there is no retreat, no escape. You can only hope to die with honor. I will guide you in your quest as far as I can.″

...Nope. No such luck.

″Yeah, yeah,″ you say, turning away and dropping the pomegranate in the strainer in the sink. You ponder getting out the root-beer vodka and making yourself a root-beer-and-vodka float instead, but you guess you could use the vitamins from the fruit. After all, you don′t get to buy nice fresh fruits and veggies very often. Your diet is chiefly composed of Wonder bread, peanut butter, ramen noodles, and microwave burritos from the 7-11, because that is all you can afford on your wages. So you′re pretty stoked about this turn of events, and you wonder what other kinds of food you can make on the Alchemiter. You will have to experiment and investigate further.

You dig in the nearby kitchen drawer for the appropriate knife. You chop the top of the pomegranate off with no problem, which is odd, considering the material it′s made out of. It feels like it should be hard and glassy, but when you poke at it more, the flesh of the fruit is of the same consistency as any normal pomegranate. So you carry on scoring the skin and start breaking it apart so you can shake the seeds out into the strainer, picking up four and nibbling them as you wait for the rest to be rinsed. Strangely, they taste just like normal pomegranate seeds. You are satisfied with this outcome, so you figure you won′t question the logic of the whole thing too much.

You pop a few more seeds into your mouth and pick up both the strainer and the cellphone so you can go back to your computer and resume playing the game with your boss and his odd friends, hopefully without losing more of your precious possessions to the ghost-thing that won′t stop bothering you.

Alas, it is not to be.

There is a bright flash of light, and the ground beneath your feet begins to pitch like the sea in a violent storm. You drop your strainer, scattering the seeds all over the threadbare carpet, and all you can think in your haze is ′gee, I hope that doesn′t stain the rug, or else the landlord will probably use my skin to patch it.′ However, to your relief, the contents of the strainer all disappear in a second flash of light. You cling to the Cruxtruder, thinking it seems sturdy enough, as the ground rumbles again. Outside, there is a great cracking of stone, as if the asphalt around your tiny apartment block is being uprooted.

″Jill? Jill?″ The sound of Dr Brinner′s voice from the cellphone is distant and tinny beneath the rumbling and cracking and splitting outside. ″What′s going on? Are you all right?″

You don′t answer until the sounds stop.

All of them.

The constant low hum of traffic is gone.

The backfiring cars are silent.

The guy who gives away Jehovah′s Witness pamphlets on the corner is mute.

The merry shouting of the children that live in the next building over has been abruptly cut off.

It is as if some great unseen hand has simply pressed the mute-button on the world.

All you can hear now is Dr B′s voice on your phone and the hollow whistle of a cold, lonely wind past your open kitchen window.

You pick the phone back up to answer him.

″Hey, boss. I′m doing okay. I don′t know what just happened, though.″

″I know what happens next,″ your boss says gloomily. ″What happens when the countdown finishes. That′s why I asked if you were all right.″

″What?″

″Some kind of fire-storm... my neighbor said his son was playing the same game as us, and I just watched their house get swallowed up in hell-fire. It′s gone now, as if it just vanished into thin air... A pity, he had an enviable collection of finely-crafted tobacco pipes... It′s spreading quickly, too. As if someone left a gunpowder trail all throughout the neighborhood. Like in cartoons. I′ve been moving my most valuable and beloved garments and accessories to safety.″ He sounds more than a little delirious. You hope he′s all right. ″Please watch out for yourself and be safe.″

″I will,″ you reassure him. ″Have you gotten your glass on the Totem Lathe? And the Alchemiter?″

″Yes, it′s done. Produced a little paper airplane. Made of glass. I think Kyle would... would have... really liked it,″ he says gloomily. ″I threw it while I stood in his room. It crashed and broke into a thousand pieces on the floor. Then it disappeared. I... I sat down on Kyle′s bed... and I′m afraid I quite lost track of time after that, until I heard the hell-storm next door and went to look...″

″Don′t you worry your pretty little head, boss. I′m sure everything is okay.″ You think of your own nieces and nephews, far across the country in New York City. You worry for a moment, then shake your head and titter nervously, trying to convince yourself that they will be totally a-okay. After all, they don′t live anywhere near you! They needn′t worry about a hell-storm descending on their house. They can happily continue playing Superhero Strife or having their evening snacks or whatever it is they′re doing right now. Of course. That makes sense.

″I hope so. Otherwise I fear this game may have been an even more ill-advised purchase than initially suspected.″ His chuckle lacks the light, easy cheer that is usually present in his voice; it is a hollow, mirthless sound. ″But I do appreciate your assistance. Please remind me to include extra compensation for your hardships.″

″I don′t think it matters now, Doc.″

″No, it probably doesn′t,″ he agrees. He sniffles and hiccups, as if trying very hard to fight back tears. You wouldn′t blame him if he was, not one bit. ″May I call you back later, if it isn′t too much trouble?″

″Sure. Watch out for yourself, now. And tell those other two dudes I said good luck to them, too.″

″You, too, Jill.″


	3. Ashes to Ashes

You return to being Dr David Brinner.

Oh my.

You are really just not having a spectacular day, are you?

All you wanted to do was play that damn game. You thought you might actually be good at it, too, because it seemed like a fun, simple little game centered around building and cute little houses and boatloads of detail work. The kind of thing you are really really good at. You were, as Kyle would say— _would have said—′_ stoked′ for this, and, up until quite recently, you were, in fact, having fun.

After the initial shock of having the strange machines dropped in your real house (and the initial shock of having your favorite old hat and your hand-held steam press crushed), you were able to open up your heart to the prospect of a marvelous adventure. You were actually just about to go out and fetch Kyle (and maybe even Lila!) from a couple blocks over to share in the excitement. You could have made it a whole family adventure.

You believed that, for a beautiful, glistening moment.

You could have made a fun little weekend out of it, you think.

For another moment in your child′s life, you could have lived up to the slogan on your favorite coffee mug and been World′s #1 Dad again.

You could have even had a little fun with your ex-wife, maybe worked on mending those last couple fences and really cemented your friendship once more, really started over as good chums. World′s #1 Ex-husband, you chuckled to yourself.

You saw this all quite clearly and beautifully in your mind′s eye, and you were enthusiastic to fetch the two of them. So what if it ruined Kyle′s birthday surprise? The boy always liked to shake his presents (and, occasionally, when he thought no one was paying attention, he liked to peel away the wrapping paper at the end of the package and try to see if he could peek at the juicy contents within). He wouldn′t be too upset with an early birthday present. Lila might shake her head, but she would probably go right along with it anyway. She likes to have a good time. Why not make a family day of it? You are sure that none of your colleagues would mind letting them jump in and play. Perhaps Lila and Jill can become friends! Everybody can be friends! This sounds like a better idea the more you think of it.

So you got your best hat from the rack near the front door—the well-brushed black suede affair with the jaunty yet reasonably-sized and darkly-toned hawk-feather stuck in the band. You hung up your sensible dark-green tie from earlier in the day and grabbed your least favorite but most whimsical and ostentatious tie, the one with the little glittery blue pixies—it was a present from Lila years ago, and you simply cannot bring yourself to do what most reasonable and sane people would do (namely, leaving it to rot, forgotten, in the back corner of the closet).

You were almost all the way down the front patio steps when the Egberts′ house exploded.

You are still not certain of the cause; you know only that it was some manner of flaming projectile, blazing straight through the house as if guided there by the hand of God.

There is nothing where it once stood, save for the white-picket fence, now reduced to a mere fistful of matchsticks scattered among the soft green grass of your own backyard. The rest is a smoking, crumbling-edged crater. The same unseen hand that threw that arrow of fire might well have cut the house and its environs from the world with a surgical scalpel and replaced it with a piece of the moon. Lifeless. Sterile. Empty.

You watched the red sparks and silver dust dance from up out of the crater.

All you could think was that... those were your neighbors, your dear, wonderful friends, that′s all that′s left of them, floating towards the blackened sky.

The gentle spring sunset above is almost totally blacked out by dark, noxious smoke. The only light comes from the bright-red meteors streaking down from the sky, as if someone set the rain on fire. You watched them helplessly for quite some time, pelting the brittle ground without mercy. Shockwave after shockwave shook your house, so hard that you thought it would collapse around you. You took cover beneath the sturdy green plastic patio furniture, not wanting to be decapitated by the flying debris. With the way your luck is going, you would get to your feet and immediately be reduced to a blob of strawberry jam by a flying car door or something. Better to keep your head down until the hubbub has died down some.

Once the house stops quaking, you carefully scuttle from your hiding place like a hermit crab, complete with one of the green patio chairs still stuck on your back. It is discarded once you get into the foyer and close the front door behind you.

You begin to survey the damage, and it is not encouraging.

Every window in the house is broken. Some are melted from the heat of the fires. Some are shattered from the force of the shockwaves. Everywhere you look, the carpet is absolutely covered with a thick snow of glowing sparks, gray ash, and splintered glass. There is the occasional puddle of molten glass, leaving an ugly smeared trail down the walls and equally ugly bald patches on the rugs below. You were stupidly lucky (although you′d like to think of yourself as being clever and prudent instead) to have avoided the storm of glass that was blown in by the heat and the violent quaking of your house.

Your first stop in your inspection is the living room. Your elegant yet tasteful blue wallpaper is smudged black and gray with smoke, bubbling and peeling away from the wall in several places. That′s the least of the damage, though. Your furniture has also been ruined beyond all hope.

Some of it was due to the intense heat. It has cracked and warped and dried out the wooden pieces. The Edwardian umbrella stand in the corner was reduced to a scorched lump of wood flecked with now-cooling globs of molten glass from the nearby window. The walking-sticks and umbrellas resting inside of it are equally ruined.

Some of it was due to the quakes. The violent force toppled even the heaviest furniture like dice in a cup, leaving it all a splintered mess on the floor. You are not about to check the status of the electronics contained within the strikingly handsome Victorian oak wardrobe that serves as your family′s entertainment center; you have no doubt that it′s all broken, which will just depress you further, or that it′s actively dangerous to touch, due to shredded or melted or torn wires or something like that.

You could weep when you think of the hours of restoration work gone down the drain. The umbrella stand alone took a solid month of nonstop work—sanding the splinters, staining it just the right color to match the other wooden furniture in your living room, lining the inside with a special liquid material to avoid wood-rot from the wet umbrellas, but always being careful to keep the shape and character of its original era. You estimate that you spent over six months working on the wardrobe, inside and out. Weeping. Just... you could just weep. So much hard work and love and time put into those projects! And all for what?

It isn′t all bad news, you suppose. The hideous acrylic upholstery on your couch is halfway melted. You′re almost grateful for this turn of events. This means you can finally shove it out to the street and get a new one, which you′ve always wanted to do. It′s just not adequately comfy. Not to mention you could never get used to that weird plasticky pseudo-suede that covers it. It′s like sitting on fuzzy Teflon. More importantly, though, the hideous fabric didn′t catch fire and burn your whole house down. You don′t think you could handle a housefire on top of everything else. Especially because there is probably no longer a fire department to assist you.

The heat is oppressive as you move through the house, hanging around your neck like a heavy yoke. You feel sweat pouring from every inch of your skin, in a most undignified way. It is as if you are taking a walk inside an oven. You loosen your ugly tie and unbutton the top button of your damp and wrinkled dress shirt. It does not do much to help. You don′t suppose there _is_ much that can be done. You just hope that you can change out to a clean shirt and more appropriate tie soon. You hope that you have a suitable end-of-the-world tie. You will have to double-check. With any luck, your wardrobe will be fine, and you can evacuate the more expensive items to safety—perhaps in the garage—before something unfortunate happens.

* * *

Your wardrobe is not fine.

You accidentally left the door of your walk-in closet cracked when you headed down the stairs. A puff of red-hot wind from the ring of fire blew in through your shattered bedroom window, and that blew the door wide open. Shortly after, the ashes and burning cinders spiraled in and settled all around your room. Half a dozen flash-fires exploded into life and consumed themselves to dully-glowing embers, like phoenixes. Some still smolder here and there, smoking slightly.

Burnt rags and orphaned scraps of fabric litter the hardwood floor of your walk-in closet. Many of your finest garments were consumed by fire to some degree or another. The various cotton and linen items are beyond all hope, much to your dismay, but at least your wool coats are largely undamaged. Some are sooty, some partially burnt, but none have been destroyed. You can simply have them lau... well, you guess you can′t have them laundered, no more than you can have the fire department come and put out the Egberts′ house. Or the other half-dozen houses caught up in the inferno.

Exasperated, you marvel at how far your standards have slipped in a mere ten minutes.

The majority of your wardrobe has been destroyed, your house is enclosed in a ring of fire, meteors are still battering the ground around you, your best friend and his son are both dead, and you don′t have a good feeling about Kyle and Lila, either... but at least your wool coats are okay. More or less.

You carefully take the wool items off of their hangers and lay them out on your soot-covered bed. You suppose there isn′t much point in trying to keep them clean right now. Even if you can′t have them laundered, you suppose you can figure out a way to clean them by hand. A real gentleman knows how to take care of himself and his fine attire!

Next you check up on the boxed hats high atop the wire racks at the very back of the walk-in closet. These are your most expensive items, and they take first priority. You take the first one down and set it down on your bed. You are prepared to wince when you pry off the plastic lid. You figure that, with your luck the way it′s been today, your hats will all be unsightly. Perhaps covered in dust or ash or simply thick with the stench of fire. But to your delight, the boxed hats are perfectly fine!

You feel this is cause for cautious celebration... after you get the hats and wool items to safety, and after you urge your esteemed peers to do the same for their admirable wardrobes.

* * *

_FedoraFreak has submitted the following Serious Business in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :

_FedoraFreak_ – neighboring house struck by flaming projectile. in light of fire hazard, evacuating house of all expensive garments.

_Officeurchin1280_ – gl Fedorafreak. Salvage as many hats as is practical.

_WellPressedAttire_ – Fedorafreak, you are in our thoughts, along with Pipefan413 and his enviable collection of pipes.

_FedoraFreak_ – ty all. report: most hats removed from danger. ties next.

_FedoraFreak_ – also, advise honorable colleagues to do same. worry that flaming projectiles may not be isolated local incident.

_WellPressedAttire_ – ty, Fedorafreak. Will take under advisement.

_grayslacks66_ – as shall I. ty ff. will evacuate best suits ASAP.

_FedoraFreak_ – grayslacks66: splendid. wish you the best of luck. wish you all the best of luck.

* * *

After some time, Jill gets back to you on the telephone. In your fog, you had almost forgotten about the lump of glass and the punched card and the strange machines, even though you bumped into the Cruxtruder almost constantly on your trips downstairs to the garage. (The garage is the safest possible environment for your valuables, since it has no windows or other openings and is thus free of fire, smoke, soot, and broken glass.)

You put the plastic box with your bowler hats down on the landing next to the Cruxtruder and pick up the glass and the card, heading upstairs to Kyle′s room to make use of the Totem Lathe parked next to his bed. You jam the card and the glass lump into the machine, watching it carve the glass. You are somewhat cheered upon viewing this process. You would like to have a couple of vases like this on your mantel. Perhaps on your dinner table, too! The color and the way it catches the light... it would match your décor perfectly! If you could just hollow it out to hold flowers... or ashes.

Your face falls again and doesn′t twitch back into its customary smile.

Sometime soon, when the fires die down a little, you will have to journey out to Lila′s house in order to collect your loved ones.

Of course, you hope they are alive and well. You like to think that they′re huddled safely and happily in Lila′s empty garage. Lila herself is probably busily fussing over the emergency supplies cupboard—she always kept one fully stocked, just in case, even though your neck of the woods rarely suffered anything more serious than a summer thunderstorm. Kyle is probably trying to fend off her fussing and worrying. He is probably slumped in a corner playing his Nintendo, unconcerned, as children always are, with the chaos going on outside the thin walls of the garage. You like to think that the worst they have to deal with is the slightest wisps of smoke sliding in under the door. No fireballs descending upon their roof, no inferno ringing their house. You like to think that they will emerge from the garage in a few hours, perhaps slightly sooty, but largely unharmed by the disaster. You like to think that you will meet up again soon, that you will all take cover and... and face the end together, if you must. You like to think that the three of you can make it and live out the last of your days in relative peace and happiness, if you must face this hell-storm at all.

You like to think.

But you were never very good at lying.

The Lathe finishes carving the glass, and you take it to the Alchemiter in your own bedroom, according to Jill′s instructions. The little arm on the side unfolds and scans the wavy lines of the vase. A flash of blue-silver light later, and you are left with... a tiny folded airplane. You would call it a paper airplane, except it′s made out of some light, delicate glass-like substance.

You shrug, then pick it up and head back into Kyle′s room, sitting on his bed and staring at the airplane for awhile, turning it over and over in your hands. It seems like the kind of thing he would like. Would have liked. He always did like origami. You never could figure it out—he might as well have been working some kind of strange paper-based magic for all you understood—but he could make all kinds of splendid things from a simple sheet of paper. Little paper monsters with clacking jaws. Claws that could leave paper-cuts. Boxes to hold little treasures. When he was younger, he would present you with a hand-folded paper hat every holiday! And, oh, the variety! Paper fedoras, paper deerstalkers, paper crowns, pointed paper wizard hats... you were always so proud of his artistic skills. You would wear those silly paper hats all day, as if they were the golden glittering crowns of a mighty king. You would wear them down to the corner store and to the Olive Garden (which was always your favorite place to go on your birthday or Father′s Day—you like their breadsticks), and you would proudly tell the puzzled clerk or baffled server that your talented and clever son made it special just for you.

You didn′t get a single paper hat from him this year.

You smile sadly and throw the glass airplane. It soars lightly and smoothly on the boiling breeze, like it′s made out of paper, then hits one of Kyle′s bookshelves, shattering into a thousand pieces on the carpet.

It feels as though someone has surgically removed your heart and carelessly tossed it into the ring of fire. You feel dizzy and hollow, like a tiny you is wandering around inside your own head and bumping against the edges of your fevered skull. That tiny you is blown around by the cacophonous echoes of idle and meaningless words. Your ex-wife′s name. Your son′s name. The words that follow those names like moths after a flame— _dead, gone_. Those words mix and mingle into howling nonsense.

That emptiness, that howling, horrible emptiness... that is how you know that the light has gone from your life, that Kyle and Lila are... are...

They are only ash.

Tears blur your gentle gray eyes, but you remove your glasses and press the heel of your hand against your eyes to wipe them away.

Shortly afterward, you have another conversation with Jill. You choke back your tears, since you do not want to worry her unnecessarily, and try to speak normally. No matter how much you try, though, your sorrow slips into your voice. You fear it slips into your mannerisms, too. Jill doesn′t seem to mind much, though; she reassures you (uncertainly) that things will probably be okay. Somehow. You doubt that, and so does she. Still, you wish her luck.

″May I call you back later, if it isn′t too much trouble?″ you ask. You don′t want to abandon your assistant, but a gentleman does not trouble his friends with his woes. He waits until he is safely secluded, and then he can cry to his heart′s content.

″Sure. Watch out for yourself, now. And tell those other two dudes I said good luck to them, too.″

″You, too, Jill.″ She′s a good lady. She understands.

So you hang up and you finally let the tears come freely.

You slump against the wall next to Kyle′s bed to grieve, crying in the most undignified and ungentlemanly way, howling as if you are being tortured by hot pokers.

You barely notice when your house begins to quake once more.

* * *

DuskyDahlia (DD) began pestering 2busy4this (2B)! –

DD: hey 2b

DD: did dr b tell you what to do with the glass and the card

2B: yes.

DD: what did you make with it

DD: just out of curiosity

DD: i got a pomegranate

2B: i received a fine wine-glass.

2B: imbibed delightful, perfectly-aged Chardonnay from it.

2B: do you enjoy wine?

DD: nah i prefer girly mixed drinks

DD: anyway did drinking that wine from that glass send you somewhere weird? like did it uproot your house and send you to outer space?

2B: yes, i′m afraid so.

2B: it is presenting me with some difficulties in completing my routine investigations.

DD: investigations? are you like a PI or something? that′s really cool

2B: nothing so thrilling, i fear.

2B: i am an insurance investigator, employed in-house by a particular company.

2B: i apologize for any disappointment caused by this revelation.

DD: still pretty cool

2B: thank you.

2B: but as mentioned previously, this sudden move has rather wreaked havoc on my office.

2B: my papers have been scattered everywhere.

2B: some are lost forever. blown out through the window.

2B: so now i must simply make do with what i remember of each case and my investigation.

2B: such a frightful mess.

DD: are you not like concerned that you′ve been teleported into space

DD: because it′s kind of freaking me out personally

2B: strange circumstances are no excuse for sloppiness.

2B: once my belongings are accounted for and reorganized, and my work completed to the fullest extent possible given the circumstances, i shall set aside the time to panic.

2B: after an acceptable period of panicking not to exceed an hour, i will investigate my new surroundings thoroughly.

DD: man dr b′s friends are all so proper

DD: you guys are scheduling your freakouts

DD: and here i am just randomly running from one end of the house to the other tearing my hair out

2B: how is our friend the doctor, if i may ask?

DD: distraught

DD: understandably i mean

DD: i wanted to talk to him some more, but he asked if he could call me back later

DD: hope he′s okay

2B: i′m certain he will be just fine.

2B: he is a resilient man.

2B: it is his way, and i suppose, his role in life.

2B: to be toppled, and to spring back to his feet.

2B: so don′t you fret.

DD: who′s fretting, i′m not fretting

2B: well, in case you did decide to start, i merely advise against it, as it is unnecessary.

2B: there is no time to be wasted.

DD: i′ll take that under advisement

DD: brb gonna talk to the other guy too

DD: stay safe, 2b! don′t go dying on us!

2B: by all means, i will try to avoid it.

– DuskyDahlia ceased pestering 2busy4this! –

* * *

You are now 2busy4this.

...well, you really are.

Your real name is Lionel Snyder (though you much prefer to go by ′Leo′), and you have been working on this case for weeks now, getting nowhere... and just when you were finally getting somewhere sifting through the evidence, your house uproots itself, teleports you to the moon, and blows all your papers and forms out of the open office windows.

The utterly bizarre situation does not bother you quite as much as the fact that your schedule has been thrown off. As FedoraFreak′s fine assistant noted, you are a very regimented man. Every minute in your life is carefully planned out, and you like it that way. There′s a big picture to paint here, after all, and every little detail counts. Indeed, you feel that the details are the whole point. If there were no details to fuss over, there would be no big beautiful picture at all, and how boring would that be?

It is a part of why you do what you do. Your entire job is to examine the tiniest details and put together the big picture. You are a valued and highly esteemed member of the insurance company that employs you. You take an incredible amount of pride in your work and your work habits, and not even being uprooted and teleported to the moon (for all you know) can stop you.

First you must finish your long and thorough list of investigation notes—in which you clearly and indisputably prove that Mr Ellis B Whitaker of Wilshire Boulevard, Los Angeles, California, is guilty of arson (possibly _serial_ arson) and thus does not deserve his insurance payout—and the accompanying mountain of forms and other documentation. You suppose also that you must leave a note for the proper authorities to be contacted in order to halt his heinous firebug ways. But more importantly, you have successfully closed another case and, in the process, prevented another terrible case of insurance fraud, thus ensuring fair prices and good service for all of the honest policy-holders out there. It is a heavy burden to bear, but you bear it gladly and proudly.

Then you have to finish your taxes—after all, the filing deadline is only two days away! You′ve delayed it long enough. And you certainly don′t want to disappoint dear old Uncle Sam. You deeply enjoy filling out the forms and finding all of the rules and details. Some might worry that you are cutting it close to the deadline, but you confidently—almost smugly—feel that you′re living on the cutting edge. You are confident that you will have every single one of the relevant forms filled out completely and filed to the satisfaction of the Internal Revenue Service well within the time limit.

That you have been teleported to space, and that Uncle Sam and all his beloved children are as dead as old Dad′s hat-band, seems to have escaped your ordinarily keen mind.

Deep down, you know that there is no point in continuing your work on either project.

But a gentleman maintains his composure no matter what.

So you continue to stick to your schedule as closely as possible considering the circumstances. Even when those odd devices plopped down around your house, you investigated them quickly and then returned to your work. You managed to accidentally free your ′sprite,′ as he calls himself, and he has been spectacularly helpful so far. When your papers flew out of the window, you requested that he retrieve them as quickly as possible, and so he has—at least, the ones that were salvageable. Some of them are gone for good, most regrettably.

The sprite is a ghostly bright-green, so bright it almost burns your eyes to look upon it. It is an incredibly strange creature to behold. You deduced, using your skills, that its appearance is owed to the hobby items you had resting on the corner of your desk, which you accidentally bumped in surprise when you first saw the little floating orb following you around.

You intended to reward yourself for all your hard work by engaging in a thrilling session of perusal, appraisal, and organization.

The first item on your agenda was tending to your Taddy Clowns and Circus Artiste cigarette cards—you had a few new pieces to add, including the strongman balancing on the hoop and the tightrope artist, and you wanted to show it off to your friends and fellow collectors on the internet. (You feel an almost unseemly type of smugness regarding this particular book of cards. They are rare, and worth a lot of money, but you got them at a flea market on the cheap. Even Pipefan413, with his equally enviable collection of tobacciana, is deeply impressed by your bargain-hunting skills.)

You allotted a planned forty-five minutes for cigarette card organization. After that, you were to allow twenty minutes to thoroughly polish the fossils. You are not a serious fossil collector, but a young and well-meaning relative gave you a few for Christmas last year, so you are intent on taking the utmost care of them. And though you do not collect them, you can still admire the beauty of the trilobite—although you cannot help but shiver when you imagine what it looked like alive. Probably like one of those horrible things at the bottom of the ocean. (That same young relative once dragged you along to an aquarium exhibit about the ocean floor. You had nightmares for a week about the wolf-trap anglerfish alone.) But you like that fossil, and you display it on the bookshelf proudly.

And after that, you planned on a solid hour of reading before bedtime at ten-o-clock sharp. Nonfiction, of course. You could never quite get into made-up stories. You suppose that makes you weird. But to each his own. Mostly you enjoy books about history, the nineteenth century in particular. Your current read is a thrilling book about local Native American history, presented by a pair of local Native Americans sharing what they see through their cultural lens and what must be done to resolve the institutionalized poverty and racism resulting from a tragic and horrifying history. You have occasionally pondered researching for your own similar book regarding African-American history in the southwestern States; you think it would be a valuable resource and very important discussion-starter for both present and future generations, and you think that there should definitely be more nonfiction—particularly more historical nonfiction—written by and for African-Americans. But you just can′t find time to schedule in writing among all of your other activities. Busy busy busy.

Anyway, the trilobite fossil and the new cigarette cards fell off the desk and into the bobbing ball of bright-green light. In a flash, the sprite transformed into... into... you′re not even certain how to describe it. Its upper half is that of the circus strongman from your valued cigarette cards (and the one you were most keen on adding to your collection, much to your annoyance), with an old-fashioned square-jaw. Certain faces go in and out of style, not only in art, but in real life, and you are reminded of that whenever you look at him. He just has one of those faces.

But he is not entirely humanoid.

His musculature is outlined with thick, rounded plates of interlocking chitinous armor, all centered around a thick central stem right where a normal human′s spine would be. Sticking out of his torso are several extra spindly legs, moving like a wave whenever he moves. When he moves, he moves as a flexible, jointed creature—more ancient arthropod than man.

A giant helm of similar organic armor surrounds his head, with a pair of little feelers sticking out at the junction of his human skull and the trilobite helm, and a pair of arthropodic mandibles next to his human mouth. His mandibles click and clack like an engine cooling and ticking into idleness. At first you found it annoying, but now it′s almost a welcome sound in the utter silence of this dark space. Normally, you have some soft classical music playing on the radio, but radio reception has been cut off (though, weirdly, your internet connection is still going just fine).

Despite his strange and unnerving appearance, he has been helpful. You challenged him to fetch your papers, so he has. All that he asked for in return was a mirror to flex into, and you sent him to the master bathroom (which has several full-length mirrors lining the walls) while you continued your work with the salvaged papers.

And so you continued, almost catching up to your schedule again, until FedoraFreak′s assistant contacted you, which threw you off by another five minutes or so. Although you are mildly annoyed by the continued interruption of your schedule, you are glad to know that you are not alone in this strangeness, and you are even more glad to know that FedoraFreak himself is all right, if a bit distraught. You have seen him in dire straits before, though—during his divorce, during his father′s death, his mother′s, when his son was suffering severe complications from scarlet fever—and you know he can recover from the worst of things. The man gets knocked flat by the world, but he just hops back up, straightens his respectably fashionable hat, and resumes smiling. You only wish you had his kind of resilience; it is a truly enviable trait.

But it is not your way, nor, you feel, your role in life.

Your role is to keep everything ordered and in its proper place, to tend to the details, and for that, you must be calm and objective and patient. You do not often allow yourself to experience strong emotion, and you think almost entirely with your head.

You think that that is exactly what your little ′team′ needs right now.

You push your work aside with a heavy sigh.

For whatever reason, this game appears to possess reality-breaking abilities. You ignore that violent violation of all known laws of physics in order to focus on the important and more pertinent details of the situation in order to provide advice and assistance for your fellow players. Once they have gotten over their initial shock at being stuck in this strange black middle-space, you will be there to... to do whatever it is that needs done. You must investigate that further, and immediately, and report back to your teammates.

You grab a small stack of blank printer paper from the computer station behind you and slap it down on the calendar pad in the center of your desk. In huge but incredibly neat letters, you write ′THE CURRENT SITUATION′ and underline it a few times, then you prop your chin on your large hand and frown at it for awhile.

You have little experience with computer games—possibly even less than FedoraFreak does. But you figure you can make some safe assumptions based on your past experiences with board games.

Though computer and board games are not at all the same thing, all games have to start somewhere. Correct? In Monopoly, it is the GO square, where you collect your salary. In Life, it is the forking path between college and career. In Trivial Pursuit, it is the big pie in the center of the bigger circle. You assume that the same is true of videogames—the little computer avatar has to start at square one, too, right? At any rate, the pieces were not always there; they were placed there by a bigger hand at the start of the game. It isn′t too large a leap in logic, then, that this big black middle-space is your starting point in this game. There are bigger stakes, naturally, and a much bigger board to play on. But the principle seems logical and sound to you.

So you write that down, in slightly smaller print—′WE ARE IN THE STARTING SPACE′—and beneath that, ′WHERE DO WE GO NOW?′

You tap your pen against the paper, frowning in thought.

After some time, you get up and look out of the open window, as if to check for a big, nicely-ordered path of brightly-colored squares leading out into that dark nowhere-place. Unfortunately, there is no such thing. There is only your small, squat house and the small square of perfectly-manicured lawn upon which it rests. The rest of the world has fallen away beneath you, and nothing has replaced it. There is only darkness.

You return to your chair and resume tapping your pen on the paper, your frown only deepening. The blankness of the page mocks you. You close your dark eyes and rub the bridge of your nose with your free hand. Doing so almost always frees up your thoughts when you have a block in your brain. However, this time, it fails to do anything. You suppose it′s due to a depressing lack of information to go on.

So you decide that the next step is to gather said information.

* * *

2busy4this (2B) began pestering Officeurchin1280 (OU)! –

2B: pardon me, officeurchin1280.

2B: i find myself needing some information.

2B: please describe your experiences with the machinery and items produced by them.

2B: tia.

OU: Certainly, old friend!

OU: FedoraFreak relayed the information to me re: the creation of the glass item.

OU: So I put the glass cylinder into the Totem Lathe, and it carved a lovely vase. Afterward, I put that vase onto the other machine (the name escapes me, I apologize).

2B: i understand. please continue.

OU: And it created a little golf ball. Well, you know I enjoy golf! So I picked up a club and putted around my office for a bit.

OU: Then a colleague called regarding some important business.

OU: And the call was interrupted by my abode suddenly ripping itself from its foundations and here I am in... somewhere!

OU: I am a bit confused by this turn of events, but I am willing to roll with it, if we can figure out what to do!

2B: that is my errand.

OU: Great!

2B: and what of your sprite?

OU: The little fairy thing?

2B: suppose you could call it that.

OU: Yeah, I′ve got one. I kind of knocked over a shelf when I saw it! It gave me a proper fright!

2B: the same happened here.

2B: lost some fine articles of tobacciana.

OU: Oh dear! I′m sorry to hear that!

2B: i′ve recovered well enough. please continue your tale.

OU: Very well!

OU: The little fairy ball changed shape when the contents of my shelf were shaken loose.

2B: what shape did it take?

OU: An icon of the archangel Gabriel. And an amethyst geode used as a paperweight.

OU: When he first glided down to me, I thought I was having some manner of divine revelation! It was so dazzling! I was quite excited!

OU: Alas, it wasn′t.

2B: interesting.

2B: have you spoken to ff′s assistant?

OU: No, I haven′t! Should I?

2B: it seems like it would be advisable.

2B: i was thinking that we should get familiar with one another.

2B: i fear we may be the last beings left after the meteor-storm.

2B: not only that, but we need to complete whatever objectives the game has in store for us, and, as with all things, it will probably go more smoothly if we all work together as a unit.

OU: Oh! Sounds great, 2B!

2B: we might as well dispense with our internet handles.

2B: i′m leo.

OU: Greg! ...wow, this feels weird, I feel like I should be shaking your hand and treating you to a two-martini lunch!

2B: perhaps later, should we ever meet up.

OU: It′s a deal!

2B: i believe i have all of the information i need at the moment. i appreciate it, officeurchin.

OU: Not a problem! Be safe!

2B: you, too.

\- 2busy4this ceased pestering Officeurchin1280! –

* * *

You add Officeurchin1280′s—well, Greg′s, as you now must call him—account to your notes and study it awhile. It′s much the same as Jill′s account. Used glass item, house uprooted, now in space. For the sake of completion, you write down each glass item next to its owner′s name. Greg′s golf ball, your own wine glass (which seems to have disappeared, along with the delightful contents—it just isn′t your day, is it?), Jill′s pomegranate, Doctor Brinner′s airplane. So that′s how you were all moved onto the game board. But it doesn′t much help you with where you need to go from the starting space.

Again you find yourself lacking vital information. Annoying.

So you lean back in your chair and call for your sprite.

″Strongman!″

There is a pause, but he appears, his feelers twitching wildly as he glides into the office. You still find that unnerving, but never mind.

″Strongman, I seem to be in pressing need of some information, which I am quite certain that you possess.″

″Ho! Are you, now?″ the sprite says. His voice is... old-timey. It vaguely reminds you of the carnival barkers you see in old movies and old cartoons.

″Yes. I am. Yet I am also certain that you will not give me a straight answer if asked directly. Am I correct in assuming that?″

″Indeed, sir!″ He chuckles.

″I figured as much.″ You sigh. ″I don′t have the time to play Twenty Questions. What must I do to get a direct answer, then?″

″Sir! I am not meant to spoon-feed you. You are meant to find the answers yourself and grow as a fine gentleman!″

″I am satisfied with my current level of gentlemanliness, thank you very much,″ you say coldly. You hardly notice that you′ve made up a stupid word. ″I am not concerned with growth, but with the continued survival of my comrades and myself. Now tell me how we must progress.″

″I say! You are a bit of a ruffian, aren′t you?″ Strongman says, tutting disapprovingly. If you could, you would whip out your Book-kind Strife Specibus right now and wallop him with it. Alas, it appears as though he is as insubstantial as a puff of winter wind. You don′t think it would do much good, beyond making you feel a little better.

″I am no ruffian. I am a gentleman and an investigator. Therefore, I am collecting details and information to investigate. Your immediate cooperation is necessary.″ You decide to resort to one of your mother′s old sayings for emphasis. ″I brought you into this world, I can take you right back out.″

″Hmph! Sir, you say you are no ruffian, but resorting to empty threats—how can you not say that′s pure hooligan talk?″ He chuckles, almost tauntingly. ″But I am afraid my answer remains precisely the same as before. I am not meant to spoon-feed you the answers. You are meant to solve these puzzles on your own and advance your party.″

″Then what, may I ask, are you here for? To merely occupy space in my house as an unwanted guest? An unwanted guest—might I add—who has destroyed irreplaceable items of immense personal and monetary worth?″ you huff. He was so very helpful earlier—why is he being stubborn and useless now?

″I am meant to provide hints, not answers.″

″Ugh.″ You pinch the bridge of your noise again, closing your dark eyes in frustration. ″Then give me a hint, if you will.″

″Look.″

You pause, waiting, but your sprite becomes silent, flexing in the reflective surface of the computer-screen in the corner.

″And?″

″ _Look_.″

″Well, thanks, that′s about as clear as mud.″ You spin your chair around and look out of the window behind your desk.

There are no stars, no silvery moon hanging in that dark oblivion. There is only blackness, deep and pure. It occurs to you that you probably aren′t in outer space at all. If you were, you would be able to see something or another. Even in your smoggy rathole of a city, you can still see the moon and the stars from your backyard, at least on some nights. If you were in space, you would be able to see so much more. Stars and moons and planets and galaxies, beautiful designs sewn into the dark tapestry of the universe.

Aside from that, you suppose that you would have long since suffocated due to lack of oxygen or boiled alive due to the lack of atmosphere.

So you suppose that the assumption that you′ve been teleported into space wasn′t quite correct. You′ve certainly been sent somewhere strange, but it isn′t outer space. That poses another mystery: where the hell are you?

The sprite′s only bare hint echoes back in your mind.

_Look_.

You concentrate on the blackness beyond the window. You are not sure what you′re supposed to be looking at. Is it like one of those magic-eye pictures, where you stare long enough at a meaningless jumble of colors and swirls until you see the sailboat? You hate those damn things. Your older sister always told you that if you just looked long enough, you would see what you were meant to see, but it never really worked. You were never able to pick the sailboat out of those pictures. You suppose it′s even more pointless now, when there aren′t even any colors or shapes to pick out. Just darkness.

Your older sister also told you that, if you were having trouble thinking of a solution, you should look at it from another angle.

You haven′t used that advice for quite some time, but you think it would probably prove useful here.

You rise from your spinning computer chair and quickly stomp through your house. Not out of frustration, mind you—you just can′t help how heavy your footsteps are. You happen to be a very tall and wiry man with very big feet, and the floor in your old house happens to be somewhat thin.

You carefully open your front door and peer outside, as if reviewing an unexpected guest on the porch. Fortunately, the porch is still there, so you take a step out and reach for the fresh pack of cigarettes in your shirt′s breast pocket. American Spirits. They are one of the few remaining companies that make cigarette cards. Not quite as fascinating or as varied as the old ones released prior to the paper rationing of the 1940s, but still interesting. You like the trivia about organic farming practices provided on them. You carefully examine the card, which touts the amazing effects of renewable energy sources, then tuck it back into your pocket and shake a cigarette loose from the pack. You reach for the lighter in the pocket of your plain black slacks and light it up before resuming staring into the void.

Still it does nothing. All you see in every direction is flat, uniform darkness. Not a single star or flicker of life anywhere on any horizon. You wonder where in this no-place your co-survivors are. They must be very far away indeed if you can′t see any indication of their existence whatsoever. You thought perhaps you would be able to at least see their porch-lights as tiny pin-pricks of gold in the distance. Like tiny stars.

You sigh, expelling a puff of blue-gray smoke, and look up in the sky.

You could kick yourself for not seeing it earlier (but then, you only just thought to come outside).

There is a circle of light swirling around, far above your humble abode. It reminds you of the flickering, spiraling pattern contained in the orb that your sprite initially manifested as. This is probably of great significance. You reach into your other slacks pocket to produce a small notepad and matching tiny pencil and draw the shape of the swirling pattern the best you can.

* * *

\- 2busy4this (2B) began pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

2B: excuse me, jill.

2B: would you mind doing something for me?

DD: depends

2B: on what?

DD: if it′s dangerous or not

2B: a perfectly valid stipulation.

2B: however, i do not believe it is dangerous.

2B: i would merely like you to walk outside and look up above your house for me.

DD: sounds doable

DD: brb

2B: splendid.

* * *

\- 2busy4this began pestering officeurchin1280! –

2B: pardon me, greg.

OU: Hello again, Leo! How are you doing?

2B: i could be better.

2B: but never mind.

2B: would you go outside and look straight up for me?

OU: Odd request, but I can certainly do that! I′ll be back in mere moments!

* * *

You wait impatiently for their responses, constantly switching back and forth between the screens on your smartphone. You ponder contacting FedoraFreak as well, but you suppose it′s better to leave the poor man to his grief. You wouldn′t want to upset him any further by demanding too much of him; you′ll let him contact you when he feels like it.

You muse that he seems to be the only one with close family. It′s true that Greg and Jill could be grieving in their own ways and just decided not to inform you about it, but FedoraFreak′s family is his life. He constantly submits amusing anecdotes about Lila and Kyle to Serious Business. Even during his divorce, he would post his happy memories about Lila, and how he hoped against hope that he could remain friends with her, because she was a lovely friendly lady. You never quite had that bond with your family (although you′ve never married—you′re kind of married to your job). Your parents died quite some time ago. Your older sister jets around the world dealing in jewelry, and you′re never quite sure where she is from one day to the next, though she sometimes sends postcards if it occurs to her to do so. At any rate, you haven′t been close since you were kids, and that was a very long time ago. You′re sad that she′s probably dead, but you′re not quite as broken up as FedoraFreak. That makes you sad, too, on some level.

Your smartphone pings, and you see that Jill has kindly taken a photo of the swirling circle of light above her small apartment block, zooming in as much as possible. It′s still kind of blurry, but you can see the general shape and color—flower-like, dark red, spiraling through the darkness. You thank her politely for her contribution, then await Greg′s reply. Soon after, he comes through. He did not take a picture, but he describes it enough that you know it′s there. You think you can safely assume that there is a similar circle floating above FedoraFreak′s plain but respectable house.

Now all that remains is to figure out what these circles mean.

You stub your cigarette out and stuff it in the big terra-cotta flowerpot next to the door, then head back inside to sift through some information.


	4. Strife!

You are hesitant to explore the yard beyond the flower pot full of cigarette butts perched on the front steps, so you send the Strongman-sprite out to do it for you. He might as well make himself useful doing that, since he is still not providing any useful advice or information, much to your annoyance. So you provide him with your smartphone and instruct him on how to use the camera. Then you tell him not to come back until he has pictures of the house and the circle pattern in the sky from every conceivable angle, and preferably in close-up. You shut the door behind him and return to your desk in your study.

You tent your fingers, lean back in your chair, and stare at your papers for awhile.

This is what you have so far:

′WE ARE IN THE STARTING SPACE – WHERE DO WE GO NOW?′

Beneath that, a list of everybody′s glass item and how it was consumed.

Beneath that, scrawly reproductions of the circles over Greg′s, Jill′s, and your own houses.

Each circle is different, you note. Jill′s is like a flower drawn by a small child—with lumpy, loopy edges surrounding a smaller central circle. Greg′s is surrounded by spiky formations, like the blade of a circular saw. Your own is filled with dozens of overlapping loops and angles. Each circle is also a different color—yours is bright green, the same color as your sprite. Greg′s is a tasteful shade of golden-orange. Jill′s is dark red, almost the color of blood. You feel safe in assuming that Doctor Brinner also has his own circle revolving in the darkness above his house, though you do not know the color or the design of it. You wish you did, though—just for the sake of completion.

But you still don′t know what it all means.

You chew your thumbnail, frowning in thought as you stare at your papers. You wish it was as easy as proving the Ellis B Whitaker arson streak. At least in suspected arson or murder cases, you have specific markers to look for. Built-in hints, natural nudges in the right direction. It′s all right there in... well, not black and white, but you know what I mean. Everything everyone ever does provides something to trace, some way of divining the truth, the path forward. Not to mention there are helpful databases to search and compare similar instances of such incidents. You doubt there is such a thing for... this. Who would maintain them, anyway?

Just for curiosity′s sake, though, you throw ′sburb database guide tips faq′ into Google and see what it brings up.

The most useful thing that it brings up is a tutorial that is almost entirely impenetrable, even to your keen mind. You stare at it but your eyes glaze over after the first ten paragraphs. The respectably plain Courier New font is colored black, but oh, the prose it builds is so purple it′s nearly goddamn ultraviolet. You almost feel as though it′s burning your eyes as they they just kind of slide around the meaningless words upon words upon words. You try to force yourself to actually read it, but you don′t take away any new information; the author is at the same point you are, with no idea how to proceed. They just seemed to stop at a certain point, and there is nothing else. Perhaps their internet blinked out after being in space too long; you hope the same doesn′t happen to you, but it probably will, knowing your luck.

Before it has the chance to do so, you decide to consult Dr Brinner′s assistant. Like Sherlock Holmes, you do your best investigations when you have a Watson to elucidate to. Not to mention she seems like a decently sharp lady, with a firmer base of knowledge regarding computers and videogames. You can probably help each other considerably, if you just play your cards right.

* * *

\- 2busy4this (2B) began pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

2B: pardon me, jill.

2B: but i find myself in need of your expertise.

DD: expertise on what

DD: ain′t got much expertise on anything but i guess i′ll try whatever it is

DD: less you want my beksinski lecture

2B: your what?

DD: nvm

2B: anyway, tell me – what do you know about computers? games? this game in particular?

DD: not much

2B: well, tell me anyway.

DD: sure ok

2B: tia.

DD: first of all i don′t know much about computers

DD: just the most bare bones basics

DD: as for games i don′t know much about them either

DD: unless it′s stuff like pokemon

DD: i′m pretty good at pokemon

DD: & as for this game

DD: don′t know much about this one either

2B: splendid.

DD: hey no need to be sarcastic 2b

2B: please, call me leo.

DD: k

DD: but i guess i′ll try to lay out a few concrete facts about this game

2B: ty.

DD: so like it′s a multiplayer game

DD: but not an mmo

DD: and you apparently plop machines down in other people′s houses hell if i know why tho

DD: oh shit dude i just realized something we all shoulda realized like ages ago

2B: oh? do tell.

DD: so like we dropped those machines into each other′s houses thinking they were going into a little pretendy house on the computer

DD: but they showed up in our real houses

DD: so i think

2B: that we can use the game′s interface to interact with the real world somehow?

DD: exactly

DD: you′re a sharp one leo

DD: (not sarcasm btw)

2B: now we′re getting somewhere.

2B: you′re quite clever yourself, jill.

2B: (i will note that that is not sarcasm, either.)

2B: now to what end do you think this is meant to be used?

DD: hell if i know man

2B: hmm.

2B: who deployed the machines in my house?

DD: the other guy i think

DD: officesquid dude

2B: ah. thank you, jill.

2B: please hold while i speak to him and conduct further experiments.

DD: k

* * *

\- 2busy4this (2B) began pestering officeurchin1280 (OU)! –

2B: pardon me, greg.

2B: but you were the one who deployed the devices in my house, were you not?

OU: I think so! Did I break something?

2B: yes, several things, but i fear it no longer matters.

OU: Well, that′s a weight off my mind. I don′t think I could afford to compensate you, considering your expensive and admirable taste in finery!

2B: no, really, it′s fine.

2B: what i wanted was to ask you a favor, if i may.

OU: Sure, anything for a friend.

2B: find another machine and drop it in my house somewhere.

OU: O... kay? Why?

2B: please, i′m rather in a hurry.

OU: Lots of things to do, little time to do them in. I hear you!

* * *

You wait, but you don′t hear another heavy machine thumping down to land in your house. Not that you are eager to lose more of your valuables, but this is rather important. You wish to see to what extent another player is able to manipulate your environment. What they can add, what they can take away, what kinds of machines can be deployed. From there, you feel you can extrapolate more valuable information, and perhaps from there, you can figure out what the hell you′re supposed to be doing with this game.

It was never made clear to you, after all. Nor was it made clear to your colleagues. You can safely draw this conclusion based on the fact that not a single one of you seems to know what′s happening, why, how, or what you′re supposed to do next. You checked the email containing your download codes for further instructions, but it was frightfully sparse of anything, save for terse, almost robotic-sounding installation directions for the client and server copies of the game. No flavor text, no cleverly-written and enticing advertising copy to fill the blank white spaces, no message from the company about where to send your questions or complaints. Just less than five sentences about how to install the games.

You wonder what′s taking Greg so long. When you pull up your server-player interface, you can see a number of machines at your disposal. You would drop them yourself, but you don′t want to bother the good doctor with your investigations on top of everything else your unfortunate colleague has suffered today. He should be allowed as long as he needs to grieve, and when he′s feeling up to it, you can update him on everything you′ve learned in your investigation and get him up to speed. You don′t suppose you can change who you′re a server-player to, so you will have to serve as the guinea-pig instead.

After a few minutes, you hear a faint ratcheting noise from afar, followed by a small ′thunk!′ at the side of your house. You rise from your chair and carefully make your way to the office window, pushing it open and peering down, then up. A small smirk—the closest you can ever get to a smile, it seems—twitches at the corner of your lips. There has been a sudden new addition to your house, in the form of a wide white platform balanced precariously atop your small, squat one-story house.

Pesterchum pings cheerily, bearing another message from Greg.

* * *

\- officeurchin1280 (OU) began pestering 2busy4this (2B)! –

OU: Hey! I couldn′t find another machine to drop without... I guess it′s some kind of game money? Anyway, we don′t have the supplies required to drop more machines.

OU: So I did something else.

2B: so i see.

2B: your assistance is appreciated.

OU: What kind of project are you working on?

2B: investigating.

2B: trying to figure out what we′re supposed to do here.

OU: By the looks of it? I think we′re supposed to build things.

OU: There are options for stairs and platforms. So... up we go?

2B: could very well be.

2B: up to the circles in the sky?

2B: do you think the circle is an exit, perhaps? that we will be free to leave if we build up to them?

OU: It would be nice, wouldn′t it?

OU: But I′m willing to bet money I don′t have that it will just lead to more trouble. Possibly _worse_ trouble.

OU: It just seems too easy, you know? Here, players, slap some stuff on top of your house and you′re free to leave. Sorry about the massive hellstorm that just flattened your city and ruined your global ecosystem.

OU: Like, what would we return to?

2B: a fair statement, and not at all unfounded.

2B: i would like to withdraw my previous unfounded optimism.

OU: Already forgotten, my friend!

OU: Still... We don′t have much of a choice, do we?

OU: Pick your poison—either we sit and rot here in space, or we get up to the circle and see what′s on the other side.

2B: frankly, i′m sick and tired of looking at this blank space.

2B: so i guess we′ll build, shall we?

OU: That we shall!

OU: I shall relay this information to Jill forthwith. It′s time I met her anyway!

\- officeurchin1280 ceased pestering 2busy4this! –

* * *

\- officeurchin1280 (OU) began pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

OU: Hello, Jill!

DD: urchin

DD: i knew it was some kind of sea critter

OU: Ha ha! I′m not a sea critter, I′m merely a poor coffee-boy at a financial firm.

OU: I came to beg for my job with my hat in my hand and big brown puppydog eyes glittering upon my dirty face.

OU: But I won′t bore you with my life story! How are you, Miss Jill?

DD: well if we discount the annoying skeletal fairy thing following me around

DD: and being teleported to space

DD: other than that i′m cool

DD: how bout you urchin

OU: Similarly, I would be having a much better day if I hadn′t started playing this game.

OU: No good deed goes unpunished, I suppose!

OU: But now that we′re stuck here, we might as well play it to its fullest, right?

DD: yeah

DD: guess so anyway

OU: Anyway, Leo and I made a discovery! We′re supposed to build our houses. We think we′re meant to aim for the circle in the sky. So up we go!

DD: well i was due to get evicted from this dump anyway

DD: might as well take my revenge on the landlord

DD: mess up the whole slum by making it livable

DD: with stairs that don′t collapse underfoot

DD: maybe paint the place a color that won′t make your eyes bleed

DD: er well guess it′ll be dr b doing it whenever he feels better

DD: but don′t ruin my vicarious gloating huh

OU: Oh, I wasn′t about to.

OU: Personally, I′m quite looking forward to destroying my office.

OU: Or, well, I guess it will be you doing it, won′t it?

DD: why are you playing a game at work

DD: don′t you have coffee to fetch

OU: Oh, but it gets so dull! I thought I would liven up my belated lunch break.

DD: pfft excuses excuses

DD: slacker

DD: not like i got room talk tho i been ignoring my funeral home operations homework all night

OU: Not that I blame you! And not that it matters, come to think of it.

DD: true

OU: Anyway, you′re right. I do have coffee to make, so I′ll go make it now, if you don′t mind!

OU: Stay safe!

DD: will do

\- officeurchin1280 ceased pestering DuskyDahlia! –

* * *

After you cease pestering Jill, you sit back in your magnificently-appointed office and sigh, puffing a stray lock of thick, curly black hair out of your eyes. The thousand-dollar computer chair parked under your antique fragrant cedar desk creaks and groans beneath your weight. Not for the first time, your finely-tailored Armani suit feels too tight and uncomfortable. You take your coat and red silk tie off and carelessly toss both items over the drooping potted palm tree in the corner, then clasp your hands behind your head and close your eyes.

You wish some of your valued underlings were still milling about downstairs, but you let them all go home early today. No real reason. It′s not a holiday or an important day to you. Sometimes you do things like that because you feel like it. You′re the boss, after all, and what you say goes. Isn′t that what your folks always tried to teach you? Hell, you′re just exercising your executive power. Dad would be proud. (Well, he wouldn′t, he would hate it, but whatever.) You sent around an email earlier—′who wants to go home early and have a full paid day?′ Of course everyone in the building took you up on that. Who wouldn′t? Half a day of work, full day of pay, home in time to help the kids with their homework. You even let the janitors go home early, and boy, were they happy about that. You′re happy they were happy.

So you′ve been sitting here alone, on the top floor of your own personal big black tower, fiddling around with your preposterously expensive top-of-the-line computer.

Occasionally you take a break to stare out of the windows that surround you, or to play around with that fancy office putting green that some long-ago investment prospect brought along to curry your favor. It fails to take your mind off of anything, but you feel like you′ve made a tiny bit of progress with your putting, which you have always found to be somewhat clumsy; it always costs you a lot of strokes on the rare occasions you actually have to go play a real game of golf. You always chalked it up to nerves.

You suppose you can still chalk it up to nerves, except this time, it isn′t due to petulant, childish selfishness over the outcome of a silly game. This time, it′s due to petulant, childish selfishness over the outcome of a horrible reality-breaking game that′s destroyed the world and taken you away to some strange, cold black void to be alone. You just can′t win, can you? You sent those folks home earlier, wanting to be totally alone with your thoughts for awhile. You figured they would have a good time while you stewed in a safe silence, but they′re all dead now, scorched to ash in the hell-storm. You saw little flashes of the red meteors descending before you managed to end up here in this cold black void.

Selfishly, you wish they could come back to keep you company. In a building this big—and this empty—the dead silence seems to echo off the high walls. It gets terribly unnerving. You hate a yes-man attitude, but at this point, you would be profoundly grateful just to hear someone speaking, even if it was unbearable bowing and scraping. ′Yes, Mr Navarro. No, Mr Navarro, you′re right. Here, Mr Navarro, your boots are looking a little dusty, let me lick them for awhile, maybe get that special favor I′ve been badgering you about for months.′

You wish you could talk to your fellow Serious Businessmen. Regardless of what your assistants say (sniffing disapprovingly all the way), they are your most real, true friends and amazing people, all of them. But as with your underlings and assistants, you know that, with the exception of FedoraFreak and 2busy4this, all of your Serious Business colleagues have been reduced to so much ash and dust in the ruins of Earth. And of those two remaining, FedoraFreak is grieving his family, and 2busy4this is busy conducting his investigation. Not that you would want to bother your friends with your selfish whining. You suppose you could contact FedoraFreak′s assistant again, but you don′t want to bother a complete stranger with your whining, either. You don′t know anything about her beyond her name and Pesterchum moniker, but you′re sure she has better things to do than listen to the poor little rich boy moan about how lonely he is.

And anyway, to them, you′re not the poor little rich boy in the big black tower overshadowing Los Angeles. You′re the poor downtrodden coffee-boy at a little mom-n-pop tax firm somewhere in Rialto. You don′t suppose you could reveal the lie to them at this point. They might be angry at you, thinking you are mocking them, or bitter, because you are so much richer than any of them and yet you′re still whining about it. You know that Leo and Dr Brinner are men of relatively humble means—an insurance man and a teacher—and Jill just told you that she lives in a slum. At the very least, if you told them, they might think you′re kind of a jerk. You suppose you _are_ , because you′ve been lying to these fine, upstanding gents for years at this point. Not out of any malice—Lord, no. You just like the anonymity; you like that Leo and Dr Brinner and the other Serious Businessmen just treat you like a valued friend and peer, rather than a frightening and untouchable superior that must be avoided at all costs. You guess the charade ultimately doesn′t matter now (like so much else), but you′d still rather not divulge that and risk bitterness and alienation from your dear friends.

You sigh again and spin around in your expensive chair like a fidgety child. If he were here, your assistant would have scolded you for it. You almost wish he was. But you sent him out along with all of the other employees. Told him he deserved to have a great anniversary dinner with his husband tonight. He protested a little—a very duty-driven man, William is (or was)—but in the end, he took off to meet Jack at the French restaurant down the road. He was more like a nanny than anything else, always scolding you, but you still liked the guy okay, and you wish he was still around.

You suppose your beautiful angelic sprite should be floating about, too, but you have no idea where he is or what he′s doing. For all intents and purposes, he′s abandoned you, too. Just another day in the life of the Poor Little Rich Boy. Oh the tragedy. Oh the sorrow. Bluh bluh bluh.

There′s just you now...

_shhk_

_shhk_

_BANG_

...or maybe not?

There is a clatter from downstairs somewhere, so loud that you can hear it all the way up here.

That it might be bad news never crosses your mind at all, not even for a second. Instead, you think—you hope—it′s some straggler underling. Maybe some junior intern who decided to linger around the locker room to collect extra hours before clocking out for the day. Maybe it′s some incredibly dedicated janitor cleaning up the executive dining room after that long business luncheon they had earlier today. Or maybe it′s some guy down in accounting crunching those last few numbers.

You don′t know and you don′t care. You′re just happy to hear signs of life.

You launch yourself out of your chair and practically sprint through the enormous, heavy ebony doors that allow or deny entry into your cavernous office, careful to dodge the machines that Jill carelessly littered around the room. (To be fair, you didn′t take much care in deploying the machines in Leo′s place, either. After all, you thought it didn′t matter. You thought you were just dropping it into a pretend house on the computer, not his actual living quarters. Just like Jill probably thought this was some luxurious fantasy office you built out of pixels, not the miserable cave of an office in which you waste every waking hour.)

Much to your displeasure, your visitor is not some hard-working straggler, nor is it your beautiful angelic sprite wandering the halls.

It is a much stranger creature—a short, squat, toad-like thing, covered by a thick black shell of natural armor. The upper half of its scowling face is painted like a Day of the Dead sugar skull; its wide, toothy mouth is surrounded by tough insectoid mandibles, endlessly clicking and clacking away in the silence. His small, stubby hands are tipped with mean-looking claws. There is a dirty, crumpled fedora clumsily crammed onto its wide, lumpy head, and there is an impressive array of primitive but nonetheless deadly-looking weaponry wrapped around his stubby torso. Blank white eyes roll around and around, flicking from you to the ballroom to the ceiling and back and forth between the luxurious windows. He seems to be looking for something. You′re not sure what, but he′s sure made a mess of things looking for it. The executive ballroom has been totally trashed. Exquisite golden silk curtains reduced to shreds. Ornamental gilded cages crushed and tossed around like balled-up paper. The shining white-marble floor is scuffed and chipped to hell.

″I′m going to have to ask you to leave,″ you say stupidly, not knowing what else to say. You usually have speech-writers for this kind of thing. You also usually have security guards—one for every two floors, and at least two watching the security cameras at all time. But you let them go home too. Today is just not a very smart day for you. ″This office is closed for today. Come back tomorrow.″

It makes some high-pitched gurgling noises and darts towards you at a surprising rate of speed, considering its seemingly tubby figure. Its claws clench and stretch, almost catching the leg of your Armani trousers. You manage to hop out of the way just in time, grabbing around your pocket for your Strife Deck. You manage to produce the card that contains your four-iron golfclub. You hope it works okay in an actual fight. You primarily use the Strife Deck as a means of reducing your golf bag to a simple gym bag that holds towels and water bottles, while your clubs and other equipment are safely stored in your pocket. It′s much more convenient than lugging around a bag as big and as heavy as a high school football player.

The card morphs into your golfclub—you′re still not sure how all this Sylladex and Strife Specibus business works, but it works for you, so you won′t question it any further—and you take a swing at the creature. The metal clunks ineffectually against the creature′s carapace. It only seems to annoy him. He swipes at you again with those surprisingly vicious claws. You manage to shove him away by thrusting the golfclub into his chest. He gurgles again, annoyed, and flails wildly, trying to jump at you from the far end of the four-iron. You look around, trying to figure out what to do, and quickly jog backwards towards the wall, grabbing a lumpy scrap of shredded fabric from the curtains that once covered the enormous windows. You throw it over top of him, momentarily confusing him, and tackle him to the ground, wrestling him into the fabric like a cat in a burlap sack.

You don′t know what to do with the ruffian, nor do you know how long the improvised bag will last. Not long, with his wicked claws. So you jog to the kitchen in the far back of the ballroom, chuck the improvised bag inside, and slot a nearby mop into the door handles, jamming it shut and guaranteeing your safety.

...Or not.

As soon as you turn around, your feeling of accomplishment is immediately deflated when you see that the carapaced creature′s identical brothers have come to avenge him. There are three of them, cornering you in the back corridor of the ballroom. You squeak like a frightened mouse and swing your four-iron around wildly. It clonks one in the face, knocking out one sharp tooth and dislocating one of the twitching mandibles. His brothers turn to look at him momentarily, and you decide to book it, kicking them out of the way clumsily. One of them catches the hem of your trouser-leg, shredding it like newspaper, but for the moment, you are too concerned with your continued survival to fret about the state of your wardrobe.

You sprint back up the stairs to your office, pursued the entire way by an ever-growing mob of little carapaced toad-creatures. Some are dressed in the weird primitive armor that the first one wore; some wear simple yet brightly-colored circus costumes; some wear flowing white robes. One of the latter has his hand crushed and severed when you slam the heavy ebony doors shut. The white fabric of the robe tears and dangles loosely around the orphaned claw.

″Ah. The Imps have arrived, I see.″

The ethereal, ghostly voice of your sprite floats through the thick silence of your cavernous office. The creature itself glides in on the rays of the glowing fluorescent lights embedded in the tile ceiling, holding its hand up in a gesture of mercy.

″The what?″ you ask.

″The Imps. The first of many enemies that will seek you out. But do not fear, my child. All shall be well,″ he promises. You can′t even think of what to say to that hollow and thoughtless platitude; it seems like the kind of thing a guardian angel would say, exactly the kind of comfort you would have wanted earlier in the day. Considering the current circumstances, though, it just seems... insincere. Almost a little mean-spirited.

Out of respect for your treasured religious iconography, you don′t say anything petulant back to him, even if you dearly want to. Briefly, you reflect that whenever God hands you what you′ve spent ages begging for—in this case, blessed solitude, and time to reflect upon it—you always seem to get it, yet your immediate reaction is inevitably petulant sulking.

″I guess I really am kind of a jerk,″ you mumble to yourself. And a rotten lying ingrate—that, too. You can′t forget that. _Poor little rich boy_.

On the other side of the ebony door, the Imps are scratching and pounding, eager to make their way into your office and... what do they want with you, anyway?

″What do they want with me, anyway?″ you ask your angel-sprite.

″I am afraid that I do not know. Perhaps to kill you. Perhaps to simply capture you and bring you to their lord.″

″It′s probably best that we don′t find out!″ you say. ″How do we get them out?″

″That is your current task. A puzzle you must solve on your own. I am to take your direction and assist you... but I cannot give you direct answers, or complete your tasks for you. You are meant to grow with the challenges you face, and I cannot grow in your place.″ He gives you a beatific smile, raising his hand to show his permanent gesture of mercy. ″All shall be well, my son.″

″So you say, but looking at those Imps, I′m not so sure.″

″The Imps are but the first of your foes. If you cannot battle them and succeed, what hope do you have for the others?″

″I suppose that′s true.″ You lean on your four-iron like an old man on his cane. ″And I suppose the others need me... I think. I hope.″

″Of course they need you. Every aspirant is important, and vital to the completion of this arduous quest.″

At last, you do find yourself comforted by the angel-sprite′s words. Despite your lofty position at the very top of the company, you′ve never really felt important or valuable; hell, you′re little more than a figurehead sitting in an office, stamping papers, signing checks, and sometimes entertaining investment prospects. But you don′t make any decisions or take any action; in the end, that′s all up to the board. You have ultimate veto power, but you can′t do anything by yourself. Your shoes could easily be filled by a trained dog with the company′s rubber stamp tied to its paw. And—

Agh. _The poor little rich boy rears his ugly head again_ , you think miserably.

On the heels of that thought, though, another, more hopeful voice pipes up, and you must confess that you picture good old FedoraFreak saying it, a broad smile lighting up his plain but kindly face _. Greg, my good fellow, have you ever considered that perhaps you have been looking at this the wrong way_? It′s just the kind of advice the man would give were the two of you conversing on Serious Business. He is always keen on helping the younger Serious Businessmen with their troubles; though you have never spoken of yours (not your real ones, anyway), you have seen him counsel others to great effect, even considering the clipped and fragmented manner of speech common to the users of the website.

Perhaps this illusory FedoraFreak is right.

Perhaps you have been approaching this from the wrong angle all along.

Perhaps you can finally leave the poor little rich boy behind. Because it doesn′t really matter now, does it? You aren′t Greg Navarro, heir to a truly enormous fortune and an international finance company of considerable reach and influence; you are just... Greg Navarro. You suppose you can be whoever you feel like being now. You′re not sure who that is, at the moment, but you suppose you have all the time in the world to ponder that.

In the meantime, you figure you can get some exercise. Practice your swing a little bit. After all, you′re on a _Quest_ now. You never know when you′ll be called upon to rescue some fair damsels or dashing squires (what IS the male equivalent of a damsel, anyway? you′re sure they exist, but you′re not sure what to call them). So you should shape up!

″Gabriel?″ you say to the patiently-hovering sprite.

″Yes?″

″I... I think I′m ready to face the things. The Imps.″ You choke up on the grip of your four-iron a little. ″I know you can′t take care of them for me, but are you allowed to assist me? Even if it′s just to keep them from jumping on me all at once while I take a swing at them? Can you do that much?″

″Certainly.″ He gives you that beatific smile again, and you feel considerably comforted by it this time.

You flash a smile back at him, then raise the club, shifting yourself into position.

″Okay... it′s a difficult drive to the eighteenth hole. You′ve kept a great score so far, so don′t blow it with extra strokes. Make this one a powerful stroke, get the ball as close to the hole as possible...″ you mumble to yourself. It probably makes you look like you′re out of your mind, but it helps you concentrate on the game at hand and what must be done to win it.

Now, you feel, you are approaching it from the correct angle.

″Open the door. Please.″

The angel-sprite waves his hand, and the doors swing open to reveal a small army of Imps, all howling for your blood.


	5. Playing to Win

_You wake with a start._

_You rub your eyes, but everything in the room still seems to shine with a soft golden glow._

_When you walk, it′s like walking through damp sand—a slow, lazy pace that has you stumbling sleepily through the room._

_And it is your room. You think. Dizzily, you suppose that you must have dragged yourself in here after you fell asleep on Kyle′s bed, though you do not remember doing so._

_The sun has risen after a truly terrible and frightening nightmare. You roll off your glittering bed and rush to the window. If you know Mr Egbert, he′ll be outside washing the car again, or perhaps trimming the perfectly cubical hedges that line the front and sides of his house. You think he′ll be amused to hear of your nightmare. John would be, too; it would be like one of those silly disaster movies he enjoys so much. Like that one with Bruce Willis and the meteor._

_You merrily chuckle to yourself as you push the window open, ready to look down upon a new and sunny day in Maple Valley, ready to see your beloved family and friends again, ready to put this nightmare behind you._

_What you see instead is a glittering golden city spread out in every direction, stretching all the way out into a cold black void._

* * *

You wake with a start.

You rub your eyes, and you realize it′s gone dark. The only light in the room comes from the little guitar-shaped nightlight that Kyle keeps plugged in, so that he can avoid tripping over the mess that constantly covers the floor of his room. (When you were together, Lila often told you to tell him to clean his room up properly, because the boy needed discipline, but he would always insist, ′Daaaaad, it′s not _messy_ , I just have a _system_ ,′ and you saw no reason to argue further.)

You must have been asleep for quite some time. You can′t imagine how silly you must look—a grown, forty-something-year-old man curled up on his son′s bedroom floor, eyes worn red from a couple of hours of constant on-and-off weeping, your silver-framed glasses knocked askew and fine suede hat crumpled from being used as a rather uncomfortable pillow. Before you do anything else, you restore your hat to its correct shape and produce the miniature suede brush from the pocket of your plain gray slacks, smoothing the material of the hat back down the way that it should be. Once satisfied that everything is in order, you set it back on your head at the perfect angle and get to your feet.

You make your way over to the window and peer out, just _knowing_ that you will see dear old Mr Egbert puttering around the yard, as he does on sunny spring mornings. You are really crossing your fingers that this is all just one of those weird nightmares where it′s a nightmare _within_ a nightmare, and you think you′ve woken up, but you just wake up into _another_ nightmare, but when you wake up the _second_ time, you are safely back at home, in a comfortably predictable and routine reality, with everyone and everything back in its proper place, and you feel silly for being so scared and sad but, in the end, you′re relieved you′re okay and so is everything else.

Yes, it must be one of those kinds of nightmares.

If you know Mr Egbert, he′ll be outside washing the car again, or perhaps trimming the perfectly cubical hedges that line the front and sides of his house. You think he′ll be amused to hear of your nightmare. John would be, too; it would be like one of those silly disaster movies he enjoys so much. Like that one with Bruce Willis and the meteor.

You merrily chuckle to yourself as you push the window open, ready to look down upon a new and sunny day in Maple Valley, ready to see your beloved family and friends again, ready to put this whole nightmare behind you.

There is nothing outside of the window. Nothing but that big dark empty at the edge of your perfectly-manicured lawn.

You chuckle sadly as you close the window again.

The sunshine has evaporated from your life for good, shadowed by a thick pall of little black rainclouds. Gone with the sunshine are the rainbows that made your life so colorful and beautiful.

Kyle... Lila... Mr Egbert... John... They all seem like dreams now—the kind of dreams that are so very vivid and real and beautiful when you′re having them, but are so very far-away when you wake up, the kind that just slip away while you′re trying to hold onto them.

You lean against the wall again, careful not to crumple your hat all over again. You feel like flopping down and just crying yourself to sleep again, like a petulant child who doesn′t want to go to school in the morning, trying one more time to wake up from this continuing nightmare, but you know it won′t do any good.

So you force yourself to stand up straight and tall, adjusting your ridiculous tie, and you mentally take stock of your grim situation.

The light in your life is gone—and, as far as you know, there is no way to recover it.

The world in which you delighted is gone—and, as far as you know, there is no way to return to it.

You are stranded in a strange no-place—and, as far as you know, there is no way to get out.

Seems hopeless, but a gentleman always keeps a stiff upper lip and presses on regardless.

After a few moments spent pondering, you realize that you do have something to work with.

Your friends are waiting for you.

Small consolation, you must admit, but it′s better than being completely alone, isn′t it?

A tiny, tired smile twitches at your stiff upper lip.

* * *

_FedoraFreak has submitted the following Serious Business in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :

_FedoraFreak_ – wardrobe largely incinerated. family deceased. remaining garments heavily wrinkled.

_FedoraFreak_ – commencing search through rubble for steam press, loved ones.

_grayslacks66_ – ff: hat status?

_grayslacks66_ – p.s. ff: condolences to tragic losses to family, professional attire.

_FedoraFreak_ – tyvm.

_FedoraFreak_ – hat status: some crumpled. some sooty. best hat fortunately unharmed, neatly shaped and brushed.

_grayslacks66_ – thank heavens for small blessings.

_officeurchin1280_ – surprised and delighted to see that you are unharmed, ff.

_officeurchin1280_ – grayslacks66: would like to inquire re: current health status. are you unharmed, old friend?

_grayslacks66_ – officeurchin1280: afraid not. sincerely apologize for any mental anguish suffered upon this revelation.

_grayslacks66_ – firestorm consumed domicile. was unable to escape to safety without sustaining severe injury.

_grayslacks66_ – would like to req. hope, comfort, in final moments.

_FedoraFreak_ – pl accept condolences, heartfelt grief, profound sense of loss. you are a good man. will be sorely missed.

_FedoraFreak_ – as will other colleagues, family members, fellow fashion enthusiasts. also planet in general.

_grayslacks66_ – tyvm, ff. would like to wish you and yours all the luck in the world.

_FedoraFreak_ – tyvm, grayslacks66. do believe that we are in terrible need of it.

_grayslacks66_ – yes. yes, i was afraid you might be.

_grayslacks66_ – nevertheless, glad that you are presently alive, well. regret to hear sad state of your beautiful hat collection, though.

_grayslacks66_ – going to rest now. may not return. if not, pl do not worry. will be at peace with wife and children at last.

_FedoraFreak_ – pl rest well, old friend. wish you great peace and happiness. wherever you may find it.

* * *

You don′t think Grayslacks66 will return anytime soon, but you do most sincerely wish him peace. Though he did not elaborate on the details of his firestorm demise, you can guess that it was horribly painful and deeply unpleasant to suffer through. But you feel somewhat comforted knowing that he will soon be reunited with his lovely wife and beloved children. Soon, his pain will be gone, and he will be happy.

You feel kind of bad for being as fortunate as you were to totally escape injury. The most that you′ve suffered is an errant streak of soot marring the pale, freckled skin of your face, a somewhat wrinkled suit, and a crumpled hat that was immediately smoothed back into shape. The rest of the world died, died screaming and scared, died in flames and poison gas and smoke. You watched your precious little corner of the world, everything and everyone you held dear, reduced to ashes in a hellstorm that blew in out of nowhere.

But you don′t have so much as a scratch on you.

You′re alone, you′re lost, you′re deep under the little black rainclouds (which, by now, have gathered back into one big threatening stormcloud)... but you′re alive and completely unharmed.

″So this is what rock-bottom looks like,″ you sigh aloud. You don′t like the oppressive silence that has settled over your house, so you decide to chat with yourself for awhile, just to break up the unnerving atmosphere. ″I must say, the view from here is not at all pleasing. I suppose there′s nowhere to go but up!″ You eye the empty space outside of the window and shiver. With a drop like that, you certainly don′t want to go any further down.

Before you go hunting for the steam press and a way to return to your ruined world (you don′t want your loved ones to go unburied, or their graves unmarked), you think that perhaps it would be in your best interests to check up on your house and its contents. Perhaps you will find the steam press along the way.

You straighten your hat and tie again and head downstairs to evaluate the damage and determine what must be done to return it to an acceptable state. Of course nothing will quite be the same, but you can, at least, neaten things up so that it looks more like a gentleman′s beloved and well-kept home and less like a disaster area.

You are glad to see that your house has not suffered any further damage in its sudden upheaval and relocation. Not even the framed photographs and construction-paper scribbles were shaken out of place. You will have some considerable cleaning to do, with the soot and now-resolidified molten glass everywhere. The smoke damage will also be something of a challenge, since you don′t have any specialized equipment—no pressure-washer or anything like that. Still, you′ll try to deal with it the best you can. Perhaps you′ll drag out the stepladder, bucket, and washrag and scrub it by hand to get as much as possible out of the wallpaper and ceiling.

There isn′t much you can do for the furniture, you suppose. There are tools to repair the wooden pieces out in the garage workshop, and now you have an eternity of spare time in which to devote yourself to restoration and cleaning... but you need a second pair of hands to help you with loading the heavier items onto the dolly to get it to the workshop. You suppose you could pick up the umbrella stand and carry it to the workshop on your shoulder, but that leaves the bookshelves and the wardrobe/TV cabinet. Those are all far too heavy for you to handle by your lonesome. When you first bought the pieces, a fellow at the antique store helped you to load it into a truck, and the fellow who drove the truck helped you unload it in the garage shop. When you finished restoring and detailing it, Lila and Mr Egbert teamed up to help you haul it into the living room.

But now there is no one but you, and you are far too weak to lift up the heavy hardwood furniture by yourself.

You head down the front hallway, passing the thankfully-unharmed photographs and drawings on your way to the study.

Again quite fortunately, your study is largely unharmed, aside from a pile of broken glass on your desk and an upended potted plant (the one and only real plant, a fern) in the corner. It spilled soil onto your pristine ivory carpet. But that′s not a big problem. At least you can sweep the glass up and shampoo the carpet of all the damp soil. Easy enough!

You sit down at the computer first, though, because there is a Pesterchum window pinging quite insistently, demanding an immediate answer. You hope that it′s not bad news. You just don′t think that you could take it, after all that′s happened today. But you won′t hold your breath too hard. There are bound to be complications here...

The message is from Jill. MessageS, actually—plural. She has a strangely staccato typing style that has led to her leaving about a paragraph′s worth of messages in the Pesterchum window, but you find it kind of endearing—like a more relaxed version of the Serious Business house style. You hope that she didn′t worry about you too much. Though you don′t really know her to be a worrier, you wouldn′t be surprised if she was at least a little bit puzzled and confused by the strange circumstances at present.

* * *

\- DuskyDahlia (DD) began pestering FedoraFreak (FF)! –

DD: hey boss

DD: we figured out what we have to do (we think)

DD: at least we have an inkling

DD: gotta build stuff on top of our houses

DD: because we can apparently do that now

DD: me and 2b are just waiting for you

DD: no rush though! no rush at all

DD: hope you′re doing ok

DD: talk to us when you feel better

DD: and not a minute before!

DD: want to see you back in tiptop shape

DD: so take as much time as you need dr b

DD: ttyl

\- DuskyDahlia (DD) ceased pestering FedoraFreak (FF)! –

* * *

You are cheered by the fact that she seems more lively and less agitated (though you confess that it′s hard to decipher tone when it comes to text). Still, definitely more lively—you′ve noticed that, in text, she is far more energetic and talkative than you′re used to her being in person, which is good; you often worry about her. Mr Egbert offered you tips on how to cheer her, but it never quite seemed to take. So you decide to take this sudden turn for the chipper as a good sign. After all, you could really use some good news. Not that it will do much, considering...

Considering that almost all of your friends are dead.

That your beloved son and ex-wife are so much ash whirling around the distant smoldering ruins of Earth.

That you are alone.

That you are floating in a strange void with no way out.

That there is an empty ache that plagues you with every beat of your heart...

Your smile drops and you absently rub your chest. Still empty. Still cold. Like the Tin Man from the Wizard of Oz. Only you don′t think that even a _real_ wizard could do much to help. Only time can salve that wound, you suppose, and even then, there will be a sore red scar on your soul until the day you die.

And that day may come far sooner than you think.

No... in the end, one little item of good news won′t do much at all.

But every little bit helps, you suppose.

After all, your assistant and two of your colleagues are still alive and kicking, as far as you know. You may have lost the most precious things in your life, but you are left with other items of value and importance. You can work with that. Perhaps, between the four of you, you can build something new and marvelous. Populate this void with new and beautiful life. Maybe even paint your own world onto that big blank canvas out there.

Naturally, it will never in a million years replace what you lost... nothing can ever fill _that_ particular void.

But you think that, with enough care and time, you can reduce the pain and swelling of that nasty red scar on your heart.

Your smile returns a little.

Bad moods, for you, are extremely rare occurrences. You just don′t like wasting the energy in being upset. But sometimes, you are just worn out by some terrible misfortune or another, and you end up on the couch, curled up in a ball as if you have a stomachache, your eyes closed to shut out the world.

Lila and Kyle never stood for that, though.

Lila would put in a CD of good old Glenn Miller or George Gershwin songs—usually In the Mood, your all-time favorite song—and come up to you in your catatonic funk, snapping her fingers and shaking her hips. ′Why, Mr Brinner, would you do this dishy doll a pleasure and dance with her? Show her a good time?′ And she would insistently tug at your hand until you got up and started dancing with her all around the living room. Kyle would roll his eyes ( _parents_ , man, is there anything more mortifying?) but he would still laugh. And so you would laugh, too, seeing your wife and your son trying so hard to pull you out of that funk.

Even during the divorce, Lila never liked to see you upset. She would occasionally check up on you just to be sure you were doing okay. Sometimes she would bring over a board game and offer to kill a lonely evening with you, or she would drop off a fresh thermos full of coffee in the morning before you took Kyle to school. Though you never managed to rekindle the spark between the two of you, you still cared a lot about each other. That was what made it hurt so much. But she went to such effort to remain friends, and to make sure you were okay... and that did ease the pain of separation a great deal. Sure, you′re still just a little bit sore, but, in the end, the wound healed a lot more quickly.

You click off the Pesterchum window for a moment and open up iTunes, scanning through your short list of songs before you find In the Mood. A couple of clicks later, and the sweet saxophonic strains of Glenn Miller and his orchestra flow through the silent, empty house. Almost immediately, your grin widens and your feet begin tapping, as if you are dancing with Lila′s dark-haired, bespectacled ghost.

You can almost hear them laughing and cheering for you.

So you will press on. For them.

You look down at the clock in the bottom corner of your computer screen and then back at the timestamp on the Pesterchum window. Jill′s last message was about an hour and a half ago. However, your chum-roll indicates that she is still signed on, so you should be able to reach her easily, assuming that she is not otherwise occupied, perhaps with cleaning up her own domicile, or rearranging her disturbing posters and plastic skulls. You certainly don′t want to interrupt her while she′s doing something important. But you don′t want to worry her with your continued silence, either, so you begin typing in the chat window.

Briefly, you reflect that it′s amazing that the internet is still connected all the way out here. You would have figured that being uprooted the way you were would have ripped all the cords and cables up and disconnected your service, but apparently it didn′t. How fortunate!

* * *

\- FedoraFreak (FF) began pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

FF: Jill? Are you still around?

FF: I am feeling a mite better.

FF: I am afraid that I am not quite up to a hundred percent just yet, and I apologize for returning to you at less than my best.

DD: tsk tsk bossman

FF: But I didn′t want you to worry, and I didn′t want to further arrest our progress in the game.

DD: you sure you′re okay

DD: i don′t want to see you all depressed and stuff

FF: Well, I decided I would be the best Sburb player in the world for Kyle′s sake. And I shall not waver a single hair′s-breadth from that goal!

FF: I shall conquer this game and every challenge it throws at me. Perhaps he and Lila will be waiting for me on the other side, at the end of the whole kerfuffle.

DD: i sure hope so boss

DD: you know it′s weird seeing you upset

DD: must say i ain′t fond of it

FF: I′m not fond of it, either! I don′t like wasting my energy with being upset.

FF: Not over anything.

FF: My divorce was painful, but since she agreed to remain friends, and since she tried so hard to honor that, I decided to put the rest of my energy into being the best ex-husband in the world. It still hurt like the dickens, but I felt better quickly, and I feel like I salvaged the best years of my life and my very best friend in the world by doing so.

FF: And when my mother died, I decided that the wake would be dedicated to telling marvelous stories about her. Have I ever told you about her? She was a gingery old lady, tough as nails. She wouldn′t have wanted our family to sit around being sad.

FF: See, all the energy one wastes on being upset can be better used elsewhere.

FF: I suppose one can′t help being upset, or depressed. There isn′t much you can do about a little black raincloud hanging above your head.

FF: Nevertheless, a little black raincloud can still help something lovely to grow! A lot of great people did great things under such rainclouds, you know!

FF: I will not for a moment pretend to be a great man, but I like to think that I am, at least, a decent one. Surely I should be more than able to do decent things under mine!

FF: I shall endeavor to set things right in the end, no matter how difficult. May I count on your contribution?

DD: damn straight you can bossman

DD: welcome back to the land of the living~

FF: It′s good to be back, Jill!

FF: Would you mind bringing me back up to speed? I would like to get started as soon as possible. tia!

DD: sure boss

DD: so we have to build steps and platforms on top of each other′s houses to reach the big circle in the sky

DD: dunno if you′ve been outside to look but we all have one so leo assumed you got one too

DD: we also dunno what will happen when we reach that circle

DD: but hey it beats sitting around picking our noses don′t it

FF: Indeed.

DD: and officeurchin said something about monsters?

DD: then he said he had to go because he had a pressing engagement with said critters

DD: haven′t seen any monsters around my house though

FF: Nor have I.

FF: My house is in a frightful disarray as it is. I couldn′t imagine the mess if monsters were to come rampaging through on top of everything else!

FF: Speaking of which, I′m afraid I′ve been monopolizing the conversation! I quite forgot to ask—how are you doing, Jill? Are you unharmed?

DD: mostly

DD: no bumps or bruises here

DD: just a little case of nerves but i think that all of us are coming down with that

DD: except maybe leo he seems awful calm about all this

FF: It′s in his nature. He has a certain inability to get worked up about things.

FF: If you will pardon the harsh and uncouth (not to mention grammatically dubious) terminology borrowed from some of my students (I think you know who), Leo simply gives no fucks.

FF: Why, I recall an incident taking place a couple of years ago, during an earthquake down in Southern California, meticulously detailed on his Serious Business timeline in the most patient and placid possible manner!

FF: It was a fairly large quake, and he mentioned that it shook his office building something fierce, nearly toppling it. He posted regarding his initial confusion, indicating that he would allot two minutes for himself to panic, and not a second more.

FF: True to his word, he took exactly two minutes for refreshment and reflection, then proceeded to scour the rubble for his colleagues. He even managed to fetch his and his colleagues′ papers so that they could resume working while waiting for the emergency responders to show!

DD: really? that′s really freakin cool

DD: he seems like just the dude we need on our team!

DD: i′m kinda jealous

DD: wish i could be that calm

FF: Aren′t you? You usually seem so zen.

DD: looks can be deceiving boss

FF: I suppose so.

DD: guess i′m adjusting though

FF: Good! I′m happy for you. And I mean that!

DD: i know you do

FF: Splendid!

FF: You know, I myself wish that I could be as calm as you so often seem to be. I tried it once.

DD: hahaha i remember

DD: you know i like you boss but that was just kind of ridiculous

DD: like you were acting in a really shit indie noir movie

DD: humphrey bogart you are not sir

FF: Too true! Best that I stick to being me, and you stick to being you, because we′re both better off that way.

FF: All we can really do is muddle our way through the best we can.

DD: true true

DD: so let′s get to muddling already

FF: Yes—to put it in your charming yet somewhat crass terms, we can′t sit around here picking our noses all day! I shall start building up your house right away.

FF: I shall talk to you later, Jill. Please don′t hesitate to contact me if you need me! Stay safe!

DD: will do

DD: you stay all in one piece too boss

DD: and you call me if you have any trouble

DD: you know i worry

FF: I didn′t know. But I will certainly take that under consideration in the future!

FF: Farewell!

\- FedoraFreak (FF) ceased pestering DuskyDahlia (DD)! –

* * *

You lean back in the cheap, squeaky computer chair and let a smile come to your dark freckled face. It feels safe to smile now, if just for a moment. The boss is okay, more or less, and you can′t even begin to say what a relief it is.

Despite what you told 2b earlier, you were fretting something fierce. You worry about Dr B; the guy is like family to you. Incredibly eccentric and strangely hat-obsessed family, but family nonetheless. You don′t really have a good relationship with the one you were born into (save for your nieces and nephews, who think you′re spooky and therefore cool), so you try to make up for it elsewhere, to varying degrees of success. It′s not like they′re cruel, mind you; they′re just distant. They don′t understand you very well. But neither do you, to be fair.

Still, you do know one thing. You know that Dr B was right—now that you don′t have anything to worry about, you can put your energy towards more productive and useful things.

Your dire poverty doesn′t matter anymore.

Your impending eviction doesn′t matter anymore.

Your buttloads of debt from your student loans don′t matter.

Your inability to pay them back doesn′t matter.

Your continued lack of a proper job doesn′t matter.

None of it does, because it′s all gone now.

It′s kind of exciting. Kind of freeing, too, really. You′ve always wondered what you would do with your life if you didn′t have those little black rainclouds hanging over your head every minute of the day and night. Some days you seriously pondered just ditching all the shit you worry about and not looking back. Walking away and disappearing. Taking it on the road and starting over from the ground up. Just so you wouldn′t have those things hanging over your head anymore. Daddy always said the secret of growing up was learning the fine art of being a good loser, but after so long, you get tired of losing, especially on such a constant basis, and you just want to pitch the board and the pieces out of the window and walk away to do something more worthwhile.

In the end, you couldn′t. Something always kept you from walking off and starting over. The boss-man said you just had an admirable sense of dedication to your duty, but you chalked it up to cowardice and anxiety instead.

Either way, that′s all over now.

You′re free, whether you like it or not.

You′re sad to see the good things go, too, of course.

That used bookstore a few blocks away, where you would drink cheap, nasty coffee (often with a secret shot of Bailey′s dumped in, to make it palatable) and read and reread and rereread books. You can rarely afford to buy books for yourself, but the people at the bookstore don′t mind. Sometimes the coffee guy will go through the trouble of setting out some Hunter S Thompson or some Voltaire for you. Nice place. Bit pricy, shitty coffee, but really great service and selection.

Wilted Roses, where you spent so much of the last eight years. While you outgrew your ′goth′ phase a long time ago, you still like—liked—to hang around because you have—had—a lot of friends there. athenesGrace and coinopBoy and perpetuallyPanglossian and filthyNacre... They like your ′gonzo-blogging,′ as athenesGrace called it. You never thought of it like that, though. You just liked to share stories about the things that happened to you over the course of the day, and living on the bad side of town rustled up some interesting tales. They would cluster all around your Dead Rosebush waiting to be entertained by your stories of the creepy weirdo neighbors and the eccentric but lovable professor up at the university. You miss them already (you even miss your creepy neighbors). You don′t really have any friends in real life besides Dr B—you have trouble talking to people, and they often have trouble talking to you. Except Dr B, who is friends with absolutely everyone in the world. You′ve never met a person that the dude didn′t love. You wish you made friends so easily, but you don′t, at least not offline; it′s much better, much easier, when you exist only as blocks of text on a glowing screen. So all of your friends exist online, on the other end of a screen. But that doesn′t make them any less real or any less beloved of friends, no matter how your stepmother berates you otherwise.

You kind of secretly hope that your fellow Fallen Petals are kicking around somewhere in the Sburb world, too. coinopBoy is the one who told you how to get it for Dr B, after all, and he′d been talking about it for a few weeks—it isn′t too far out of the realm of possibility that he and the other three have their own copies, is it?

You′re not holding out hope for the folks at the funeral home where you served your internship, though. It was run by a handful of really nice old folks. Not exactly friends, but they were all nice, eager to teach their trade. The funeral home wasn′t your first choice (initially, you would have preferred to shadow the medical examiner at the hospital, because that is—was—what you were studying), but you were really growing to like the place. You liked preparing the bodies, and you liked planning the funerals, so much so that you started taking extra classes for it on the side as you pondered changing your major to mortuary sciences.

Yes, you′re sad to see the good stuff go.

But it′s not like you weren′t expecting it on some level. Good stuff comes and goes like a spring breeze. Warm and comforting while it lasts, but never around for long. Just gotta enjoy it while you can. And you did. You really did.

You win some, you lose some.

So now that you′ve lost everything else, you might as well play to win.

I mean, hey, it isn′t like you′ve got much of a choice here.

You open up the server interface and survey the options offered within. Right now, all that′s available is flat white platforms and simple stairs. You kind of wish you had the option to paint the platforms so they could be seen from space—how cool would that be?

But there isn′t, much to your dismay.

Oh well.

You click on the ′stairs′ option, then click on top of Officesquid′s office tower to place the first step. You set it down next to the helipad and start clicking and stretching stairs out into the empty space above the tower. Must be a really swanky place, if the head honcho comes to work in a helicopter in the morning. Sure beats riding your weak, half-dead scooter around. Although the scooter beats taking public transportation any day of the week (not that you could afford the spare change needed to take the bus all the way out to the university).

Considering the recent revelation about manipulating your co-player′s real environment via the game interface, you strongly suspect that Officesquid is, in fact, the head honcho of this joint, but you think that maybe he doesn′t want to talk about it for some reason. Maybe he wants to make a new start, too, for whatever reasons he′s got. You suppose it ain′t always easy as it seems for rich people. So you will pretend like you didn′t see the inside of his incredibly opulent office when you were setting up his machinery. You′ll just play along with his little charade. It′s harmless, isn′t it?

″Little sister,″ your sprite rumbles behind you, his voice all broken glass and ashes.

″I thought you were out hunting rats,″ you reply, not looking up. You got tired of his rambling nonsense-riddles some time back, so you sent him to hunt vermin around the complex and keep a lookout for Officesquid′s little monsters. He made himself busy with that for awhile, leaving you in merciful silence while you caught up with the boss and his buddies. ″What′s up?″

The ghastly, ghostly bones of his rotting mandibles click and stretch, almost thoughtfully, then stretch into a hideously toothy grin. ″There is a thing which nothing is, yet it has a name. It's sometimes tall and sometimes short, it tumbles when we fall. It plays our games. What is it?″

You sigh and pinch the bridge of your nose. Ordering the sprite to just give up his information will do you no good—you′ve tried all evening to get him to drop the riddling and random cryptic platitudes. You like a good riddle just as much as the next girl, but when everything he says is either a riddle or rambling nonsense about dying with honor, you get burnt out pretty quick. Especially regarding the ′dying with honor′ part. No, thank you!

Still, you ponder awhile, rolling a few possibilities over and over in your mind. It is the only way to get him to continue speaking and tell you valuable things. What is it, indeed?

Ghosts? A ghost is nothing, but it has a name and different shapes, and the spook-stories say that they play a lot of games, benevolent or not... but the tumbling part? Well... the stories also say that ghosts haunt people, and follow them like a shadow... Shadow!

″It′s a shadow!″ you say loudly, snapping your fingers.

″Clever, little sister.″ The grin cracks and groans as it stretches wider. ″The shadows are coming for you. I suggest you prepare yourself.″

You suspect this means Officesquid′s monsters are going to pay you a visit quite soon. Not exactly the ideal time—you′re busy building his stairs, and you′re only about a third of the way there, even with your most furious mouse-clicking—but you guess the monsters won′t wait politely while you finish your work. You instruct your sprite to keep an eye on Officesquid while you′re busy entertaining your guests. He grumbles a little bit, something about how he, as a great warrior, should be doing something more important and honorable than just minding your laptop, but you pretend you don′t hear him.

You dig around in the pocket of your red plaid pajama shorts for your Strife Deck and the black-and-red gloves that go with it to make sure everything is in order before you get down to business.

You use Batkind, and you′ve got a fairly sizable collection of cards scattered around your apartment. You know, just in case. You live in a really terrible neighborhood to begin with, and you suspect your landlord rented out the apartment next door to people with _highly_ questionable employment in the pharmaceutical sales sector. You sure don′t believe the guy′s a real pharmacist, not when he stops you at the mailbox and asks if you want to buy a yellowed Ziploc baggie full of codeine pills at a discount, or informs you that he′s got a special going on syringes because he has to move them fast before his cop brother shows up for Thanksgiving dinner because the guy is a snoop and a snitch and he can′t be trusted, so he can′t just hide it in a shoebox in the closet like usual.

The neighbors themselves have never gotten violent, but some of their guests have, so you′re always sure to stack your Strife Deck with bats of every size and shape and for every occasion. Lightweight softball bats, heavy big-barrel bats, metal bats, wooden bats... there′s even a cricket bat card tucked under the lamp on your nightstand. (It was a present from coinopBoy, who lives over in Britain somewhere. In exchange, you sent him a nice all-American Louisville Slugger.) Your number-one card, though, is a big-barreled black-and-yellow Marucci, and it′s always in your pocket, just in case you need it at hand. Judging by the sprite′s little riddle, you just might.

You get up from the makeshift plywood desk and peer out of the grimy gray window that would normally overlook a slapdash cluster of overstuffed dumpsters belonging to another complex, but now only overlooks a big dark pit. Sure enough, you can see a bunch of squat frog-like monsters in really bizarre mismatched clothing shuffling single-file down the narrow sidewalk surrounding your building.

For some equally bizarre reason, they look familiar, although you can′t recall ever seeing anything like them in all your life... not in real life, anyway. Maybe in a book or a movie or a dream... yes, that might be it, actually. You must have seen something similar in a recent dream. Some equally squat and froggy creature with a similar hard black shell. No sharp, cruel fangs, though... And a rounder face, and a cute little ruffled black-and-white collar around his neck? You can′t quite remember.

What you _can_ remember of this vague, blurry, purple-haze dream is that the creature tried to kill you with a pipe bomb, but you hid under the bed so you were okay when it exploded and knocked all the glowing, purple-hazy Beksinski prints off your wall, and then you crawled out while the critter was doing a weird little victory dance, and you managed to punt him out of a tall window with your bunny-eared ballet slippers.

Dreams, man. Go figure ′em.

You decide, based on this vague half-remembrance of a dream, that this is most definitely unwanted company, probably even more unwanted than the neighbors′ frequent violent and loud guests, and so you pull on your batting gloves, just to be ready.

As you move towards the front door, you catch a glimpse of yourself in the cracked Budweiser mirror (another dumpster-score, chosen specifically to match the rest of your furniture) and can′t help but chuckle. You′re not exactly Buffy the Vampire Slayer. Stout and hippy, round-faced and freckled, with somewhat incongruous clothing—batting gloves, a black T-shirt declaring you a counselor at Camp Crystal Lake ( _Where Every Day is a Scream_!), red plaid PJ shorts, high black socks, and, to top it all off, the bunny-eared ballet slippers. You keep imagining Dr B over at his place, in a fresh, perfectly-pressed suit and immaculately-brushed hat, just punting little frog-monsters around with his polished brown wing-tips. He′s always just so... together.

Again you chuckle. Yeah, he′s always super-together, but he wouldn′t be punting the critters around, probably. He would be serving them tea and cookies and bragging about his hand-restored furniture or discussing the monster′s life decisions and goals. ′Oh, so you say you′re a monster? Don′t be so down on yourself, my friend! I′m sure you′re wonderful, and you could do anything you wanted! Do you want a refill? Green tea or black? And if you′re really feeling monstrous, we have... _urgh_!... _herbal_ tea. I keep it in case my ex-wife visits.′

You don′t exactly have Dr B′s gift of gab, so you don′t think you′ll be able to befriend them the way he probably would. You only have one peppermint teabag left, anyway—you meant to go out and get more tonight, but the meteor hellstorm apocalypse rather put a damper on that.

You stand on a milk crate to peer out of the half-moon window atop your front door. There are about five of the critters, standing on your AstroTurf welcome mat and squishing the little plastic daisy in the corner of it. You tap your thumbnail on the card containing the big-barrel Marucci, and it pops into existence in your hand. Backing away from the door some, you give it a few test swings to limber up. Usually, the sight of the Marucci in your gloved hand is enough to deter unwanted visitors. It probably won′t do too much good with these guys, though. Ah well. That′s what you have all these goddamn bats for.

Once you are satisfied with your level of limberness, you lunge towards the door and throw it open. The doorknob—already loose and fragile—falls off and clonks one of the froggy creatures on its head, further rankling its already-unsightly fedora. The boss-man would _weep_ if he saw a hat in such a state. You suppose you can′t let that kind of slight against fine gentlemen′s fashion go unpunished, for the boss′s sake.

So you thonk it on the head, as hard as you can, really putting your back into the swing, as if you were chopping wood with an axe. The stiff crown of the hat crumples underneath the force of your bat, and the creature underneath flops to the paper-thin brown carpet, flailing and grumbling nonsense. It spits out a pointy black tooth smeared in grayish blood, which clatters onto the floor like a penny.

Its brethren gape at it, somewhat puzzled, and you take the opportunity to thump them in exactly the same way. They flop to the ground and spring back up almost immediately afterward, still making their little grumbling, gurgling complaints. They′re well-armored for such little guys. Some of them are wearing the same Predator armor as your sprite; some of them have thick armored plates, like an armadillo or a lobster or something; some of them have hard sparkling stones dotting their shells—when the light catches it, you realize it′s glittering amethyst. All of them, though, have the same thick, chitinous shells that seem to absorb all impact. The way they′re shrugging off the damage, you might as well be gingerly poking them with a stick instead of wailing on them with your heaviest bat.

This is not how you pictured your monster-slaying adventures. In your vision, you were more like Buffy or Wonder Woman, smacking monsters around like flies and saving your colleagues of a, uh, more delicate constitution (as much as you like the guy, you don′t think the boss could take these creatures in a fight—so the duty falls to you, as it always does, to help him out and keep him safe). You also thought this would be some kind of epic battle against blood-slavering hell-monsters from Clive Barker′s worst nightmares, from the way Officesquid was going on. Instead, it′s more like playing a giant, very noisy variation on Whack-a-Mole with gurgly fanged frogs in crumpled fedoras, angelic robes, and Predator armor. Which is amusing (you were pretty good at Whack-a-Mole back when the town mall had an arcade), but not quite as cool as you′d hoped. Maybe it′s just as well. You don′t think you can steal your neighbor′s cable to watch cartoons anymore, like you usually do, so you′ve got to have some way to entertain yourself.

Now, if only you could find a way to play giant-sized skee-ball out back, you would really be in business.

Twenty-five minutes of extreme bloodsport Whack-a-Mole and a whole lot of squashed frog-monsters later, you are standing knee-deep in a pile of glittering multicolored things that look like Gusher candy, leaning on your bat and panting. You feel like collapsing and just taking a nap on the hideous and uncomfortable tweed couch. But you′re needed for things and stuff, so you force yourself to stand up straight (your back crackling like a lit string of fireworks) and get down to business once more.

The monsters, when defeated, apparently explode into those Gusher things. Some kind of loot, obviously, but you don′t know what it is or what it′s for. Maybe some kind of game money. You pick a small purple piece up to examine it, and it promptly disappears into the ether as your computer cheerfully pings behind you, presumably registering your collection of the item. It seems somewhat inefficient that you have to shuffle around your front room picking each one up by hand; you hope there′s a way to turn on auto-looting. Maybe there′s an options panel in the server interface somewhere. Because otherwise collecting all this whatever-it-is by hand is gonna get really tedious really quickly.

″I should work out some kind of scoring system for this game,″ you reflect aloud. ″See if I can beat my old Whack-a-Mole high score. I guess I have to figure out the prize tickets-to-glass-Gushers exchange rate. Like, I dunno, is five purple pieces equivalent to a friendship bracelet, and is one big blue one equivalent to a lava lamp? I gotta research this stuff when I have a minute.″

Talking to yourself as you shuffle around the door collecting big glass Gushers probably makes you look even more nuts than you already are, but hey, no one′s around to care, so you don′t care, either.

While you′re out on the front stoop, you decide to see how Dr B is doing with building on top of your apartment.

There is a staircase clumsily affixed to your windowsill, going around the edge of the drooping, broken gutters and rising up towards the sky in a somewhat lopsided zig-zag pattern, occasionally (and entirely randomly) interrupted by a small square platform. He has thoughtfully added some railings to the edges, but it does nothing to change the fact that it looks even more rickety than the stairs leading up to your upstairs neighbor′s apartment. And _those_ stairs splintered under your feet when you simply trotted up to give her some mail that was mistakenly delivered to your mailbox.

Well, you survived the meteor apocalypse, being shot into space, and a posse of vicious heavily-armored frog monsters who explode into Gushers. There′s no reason you can′t take a few flights of janky stairs, too. At least they′re stationary. You′ll just have to move fast to avoid straining the fragile material too much—like skating on thin ice.

First, though, you should probably stock your Captchalogue Deck with food. You don′t think you′ll be coming back down those stairs once you′ve started climbing them. You also don′t know where you′ll end up when you reach the top, but you′d hazard a guess that there isn′t a 7-11 waiting on the other side of the hole in the sky. Plus you know the boss won′t think to do it—wonderful gent, but he also frequently has his head in the clouds. It′s your job, as it always is, to be his feet on the ground, to take care of him when it kind of slips his mind, which it quite frequently does. You hope he likes peanut butter and crackers. You hope he likes them a lot. Because that′s all you′ve really got—a couple boxes of crackers and a few jars of peanut butter, in both crunchy and creamy varieties. You have a case of chicken-flavored ramen noodles as well, but you doubt Dr B likes cold, crunchy ramen the way you do.

You should also fiddle around with the Alchemiter to see if you can produce more and better food, as you′d planned earlier. If all else fails, you have a can of mandarin oranges that you can clone over and over, since making things seems to require an item on a Captchalogue card... though you have no clue how you′ll pun—

There′s a sudden thud in the living room as another machine materializes from thin air and slams down in front of your window, right on top of your thin, mismatched curtains. The rod holding the curtains is ripped out of the wall and it flops pathetically on top of the new machine. You scramble over to examine the new addition to your living room, moving the fallen curtain and rod off of the machine.

It lacks the charmingly whimsical design of the Alchemiter or the Totem Lathe. It′s just a tall, narrow desk with a couple of slots and a typewriter keyboard dangling from some thick cables in the middle of the machine. Really, it looks like someone started designing it, then went for mojitos halfway through and never got back around to finishing it. You hope someone′s pay was docked for that.

Well, whatever. It′s probably important—otherwise Dr B wouldn′t have ruined your curtains with it. The slots are obviously meant for Captchalogue cards. Stick one in there and... it probably punches holes? This calls for experimentation—and, since there isn′t a clock counting down to the hellstorm of doom, you feel more comfortable taking your time with it. Well, you have to get back to building Officesquid′s stairs at some point (and give him one of these gizmos, you guess)... but that will be later, after science is done.

You sit down on the cable spool-coffee table and flip through your Captchalogue Deck using your Photo Album Fetch Modus, looking for a Captchalogue card that you can easily sacrifice to the great inexorable march of science. You settle on a card containing a small plastic skeleton model and another containing a couple of empty hard-lemonade bottles. You meant to recycle the bottles in the morning, along with some old newspapers and cardboard boxes stored on other cards, but clearly that ain′t gonna happen. Might as well sacrifice them to science! That′s almost the same thing as recycling, isn′t it?

You shuffle the skeleton card and the bottles′ card out of their little plastic sleeves in the Photo Album and hold them in your hand, careful not to summon the items themselves.

So...

What happens first?

It′s a safe bet that, if you punch these cards, they can be used to produce items the way that the delicious but short-lived pomegranate was produced earlier in the evening. You just have to figure out the process of punching the cards, which shouldn′t be hard, because it looks like there are only two steps to it. So you have a fifty-fifty chance of getting it right or getting it wrong. Either way, you′ll know what to do within about five minutes.

Obviously, you have to punch in something with the keyboard. Probably the code on the back of the Captchalogue card. You decide to put that in first, because you have no memory for numbers, and will forget the number sequence as soon as you drag your eyes across it. You prop the keyboard up on the little ledge of the machine and punch in the bottles′ code (q82A0h54) before jamming the card into the slot. A little light next to the keyboard cables begins blinking; shortly afterward, the machine begins whirring and clanking, then spits the card back out, now dotted with a series of punched holes. Just what you needed, just what you wanted.

″You′re a mind-reader, Dr B. Thanks!″ You know that he can′t hear you through the computer, so you supplement your statement with an appreciative and grateful thumbs-up, which he can probably see from the server interface. You′re also pretty sure that he just gave you a thumbs-up back, even though you can′t see him at all. That′s just the way he is.

Once both cards are punched, you go to the Cruxtruder and yank on the wheel at the side as hard as you can. Metal laboriously groans and creaks as you pull and pull. Eventually your efforts are rewarded with another lump of glass, sticking out of the machine like a giant lipstick in a tube. You stand on a big orange milk-crate to retrieve it, then hop down before the crisscrossed plastic collapses beneath the added weight.

Now that you′ve got all of the ingredients prepared, you are totally ready to make some mad science happen. You′ve always wanted to be a mad scientist. You eventually settled on being an eccentric medical examiner, or possibly an idiosyncratic mortician, which are close-enough career choices. Plus they′re like heroic variations on the noble field. Maybe not as flashy and amazing as the kind that requires hilltop castles constantly shadowed in clouds and lightning-rod spires to power giant life-giving machines, but in the end, you′re still fixing a problem—to help solve a crime, or to help lay a ghost to rest.

You′re looking forward to producing, like, so many cans of mandarin oranges and blocks of ramen noodles with all this equipment.

What you′re really excited about, though, is that you finally have a chance to figure out some of the rules of this game. If there are rules, there are loopholes, and if there are loopholes, there are lots of ways you can exploit them for your benefit.

It′s how you always play games. When you were kids, your brother was a rules-lawyering no-fun butthead (he still kind of is—was—even as a grown man with four children). Every time you played a game, he won, simply because he would find some obscure stupid _rule_ to exploit that would put him on the path to victory so early on it was barely worth playing. Especially in Monopoly, which was banned from the entire Darrow house when you were seven.

Anyway, you got tired of losing a long time ago. You′ve never managed to take Daddy′s advice about being a good loser. Just once in awhile, you′d like to win. So you sought out the loopholes left behind by Joe′s stupid rules-lawyering and began to exploit those. It′s not cheating, you reason; cheating implies that you′re breaking rules, but how can you break rules if those rules aren′t specifically outlined? You experiment. You test. You bend the unwritten rules. You jump through the loopholes. And sometimes, you win. Not always, but sometimes, and victory is all the sweeter because you beat the game without cheating (you will maintain this until your dying day) and without bowing to stupid and obscure and stupidly obscure rules.

That′s what you intend to do here.

You′re playing to win.

Why not?

You′ve got nothing left to lose.


	6. Onward and Upward

\-- 2busy4this (2B) began pestering FedoraFreak (FF)! –

2B: ff. would like to inform you that the stairway above your house has been completed.

2B: have also provided additional machine of unknown purpose.

2B: ou provided me a similar machine. will conduct research, experiments, relay results asap.

2B: i suspect we may be able to restore our professional wardrobes with this machinery.

2B: pl proceed with cautious optimism.

2B: ff?

2B: pl advise re: current condition.

2B: am beginning to worry.

FF: Forgive me! I was momentarily preoccupied with some unsavory, unwelcome visitors.

2B: oh?

FF: Indeed. I took cover beneath my desk until they went away.

FF: Presumably they had some matter of important monster business to attend to.

FF: A meeting on the correct way to frighten children, perhaps, or a discussion on the efficiency of poltergeist activity versus apparition.

2B: highly unlikely.

FF: Yes, I thought so, too.

FF: Therefore I am in the process of locating a suitable weapon to see them off on a more permanent basis.

2B: what′s your strife specibus?

FF: I didn′t have one until just this evening.

FF: The game prompted me to allocate one, and I selected Fistkind to be done with it and move on.

FF: However, I must confess that I am not enamored of the idea of bloodying my fists like a common ruffian.

2B: no. it′s not a gentleman′s way, is it?

2B: may i recommend book-kind? elegant, practical. also a highly convenient way of carrying a wealth of reading material.

2B: seek out tax code manuals, if possible.

2B: heavy. effective. fascinating read. yet also highly expendable, esp. considering circumstances, wherein there is sadly no more practical use for tax preparation.

2B: i would not want for you to ruin any valuable or sentimental books.

FF: I regretfully do not own very many heavy books. Most of my personal library consists of slim but nonetheless thorough manuals on antique restoration and furniture repair.

FF: I still need those unmarred. My house and its contents are all in such a frightful state!

2B: yes. i saw. my condolences.

FF: Oh dear. I had quite forgotten that.

FF: I would like to most sincerely apologize for the wretched sight before you. I assure you that I do not typically surround myself with such squalor!

FF: I was just starting to clean up when the monsters rang the doorbell. I felt it was in my best interests to take refuge in my study until I formulated a better tactical plan.

2B: probably the best way to proceed.

2B: i myself am drafting plans to combat the creatures, taking into account thickness of hide, speed, sharpness of claws and teeth, etc.

2B: will share when investigation is complete.

FF: tia.

2B: not a problem, old friend.

FF: In the meantime, I shall experiment with the machines you have so generously provided!

2B: pl note your results, share with the party, that we might collectively restore our wardrobes to their former splendor.

FF: I will be sure to do so.

FF: After all, if we are going through that big hole in the sky, as you and Jill say we must, we should all look presentable to whatever we find on the other side!

FF: I, for one, would not want to give the impression that we are some manner of shambling, shabbily-dressed hooligans!

2B: god forbid.

2B: we may be the last people alive, but that does not for a moment mean that we can abandon our dignity or professionalism.

FF: Well said!

FF: It is all that we have left, and we must preserve that decorum at all costs.

2B: indeed.

FF: And that starts with a clean-shaven face, polished shoes, a laundered and pressed suit, and a well-brushed hat!

FF: Although, as I recall, you are not fond of hats—we may include that last item as optional.

FF: At any rate, the recovery of our dignity begins with the recovery of our typically dashing appearances!

FF: This is slightly complicated by the fact that I am without water, and thus unable to wash my face or launder what few items of clothing were not destroyed in the firestorm...

FF: I suspect the plumbing was severed and drained upon relocation.

FF: Curiously, the electricity and the internet have remained connected without a single hiccup in service.

2B: yes, that is terribly strange.

2B: you would think that we would be completely disconnected, being without power lines or anything of the sort.

2B: yet here we are.

FF: I am quickly learning not to question anything.

FF: I believe it to be a futile endeavor, because I do not think that we will ever get any answers.

2B: no, i don′t think we will.

2B: all we can do is investigate and pool our findings.

2B: piece together the evidence.

2B: divine our path for our own.

FF: So let′s get to it, shall we?

2B: yes. let′s.

FF: I will contact you shortly, once I have deciphered the machines and their workings.

FF: It was delightful to speak to you again, my friend!

2B: to you, too.

2B: am overjoyed that you are in better spirits.

2B: was worried.

FF: Shucks, if you will pardon my language.

FF: It seems as though everyone was worrying about me! I shall ensure that it doesn′t happen again.

2B: you weren′t doing it on purpose.

FF: I know. Yet I don′t like wasting my energy on sadness, and I don′t like others to waste theirs worrying about me!

FF: Obviously, we all have much better and more interesting things to put our energy towards, especially today.

FF: I must confess that, despite my typical hesitation towards travel, I am incredibly curious about the other side of the sky! And, knowing you, I am certain that the question is just eating at you.

FF: So! Onward and upward, gentlemen!

2B: indeed.

\-- 2busy4this (2B) ceased pestering FedoraFreak (FF)! –

* * *

You are excited to find out what awaits you at the top of the silvery glass staircase that your colleague has so courteously constructed for you, certainly, but you are even more excited by the prospect of using the machines to replicate your once-glorious wardrobe. While you are glad that your wool coats and one or two of your hats are all right, you would like to be able to change into something light and cool and clean. You know, something not wrinkled and caked in soot. Perhaps a crisp cotton shirt, freshly pressed, and matching slacks, creased just so. You feel that it′s a bit warm for a jacket just now, so you might settle for a lightweight but stylish waistcoat and a non-ridiculous tie instead—but, in the end, you can′t be too picky, so you would settle for a somewhat casual jacket as well. And, to top the whole look off, a pair of perfectly-polished black oxfords and luxuriously soft silky socks. My! It would be like dressing up in Heaven′s soft, silky, silver-lined clouds.

Hopefully the machines can provide you with all of that, as Leo implied they might. You′re willing to seize on to the slightest sliver of a chance and experiment. It would be simply marvelous. You would certainly feel like yourself again!

And... if it can replace your ruined wardrobe, what else might it be able to recreate?

...might you be able to bring Kyle and Lila back, in some form?

You simply _must_ find out.

On your way out of your study, you pause to peruse the framed photographs on the wall beneath the stairs. Immediately your eyes find your two favorites.

The first is a picture of you, Lila, and Mr Egbert, posing with the newly-restored television cabinet. Lila is in her yardwork clothes—red plaid shirt, tattered old jeans, leather moccasins. You and Mr Egbert, on the other hand, are in your typical professional ensembles, though both are marred by the results of the day′s work. Mr Egbert has a big blotch of not-quite-dry wood stain in the middle of his torso. You are covered in a veritable rainbow of sawdust and wood shavings, looking rather like you just rolled around in a giant hamster cage. But you like to celebrate a job well done, and Lila and Mr Egbert are—were—both terribly good sports, so you convinced them to pose for a picture. You are in the center, with an arm around each of your best friends′ shoulders. Mr Egbert is grinning sunnily around his puffing pipe; Lila is in the middle of laughing at something that was clearly uproarious.

The second is Kyle′s most recent school picture. Where any normal child would be sitting on the stool with their selected valuable possession, looking dignified and adult as a kid possibly could, Kyle decided to take a different approach. He took his Gamestation controller and decided to pose as if he was flailing around during a particularly harrowing game tournament, and you wound up with a photo of him midway through falling off the stool with the controller still waving about. Perfectly timed for hilarity. You were offered a selection of more austere alternative photos, but both of you agreed that this was the best of the lot. So you ordered a dozen in various sizes and passed them around to friends and family, always enjoying their baffled reactions. Still, you think it′s overall a good picture. It really captures your son′s character well.

So you take both of those down from the wall and Captchalogue them into your Wallet, hoping that you can somehow use the magical machines to summon them in some form. How splendid it would be to have your best friend and your son along for an adventure!

You would certainly feel much more relaxed about the whole affair if you had Lila around to guide you. She always liked exploring. Her idea of a proper vacation was to throw the map in the gas station trashcan and see where the wind took you. It certainly provided some fascinating stories, and you certainly got to see some fascinatingly offbeat things. Like the time you toured Arizona and wound up seeing those strange stacks of stones out in a canyon somewhere. Or the time you found an abandoned cowboy graveyard in southern Nevada and did gravestone rubbings of stones that were almost too worn to read, but still held a ghost of their words when scrubbed over with charcoal. She loved exploring and wandering, finding treasures that no one had seen in ages. It made her an incredibly valuable antique-shopping partner; she had a great eye for a diamond in the rough.

You, on the other hand, have never been much of an adventurer or an explorer. A bargain-hunter, certainly, but you just don′t like traveling very much; you′re very much a homebody, preferring to stay at home and entertain a few close friends, perhaps with a gentlemanly game of Trivial Pursuit, or good old-fashioned chess. Traveling often presents too many variables and risks to be truly enjoyable, you feel; you prefer a familiar environment with familiar people, and what′s more familiar than your humble abode with your handsome hand-restored furniture?

You′re not very keen on leaving that warm familiarity even now, when all that was familiar to you has been utterly ruined.

You sigh, then smile.

Restoring the complete extent of your collective finery is a team effort, and your colleagues will need your notes in order to pursue such a noble and completely necessary endeavor. Since none of you can do laundry, you simply must work—to the bone, if necessary—to create new professional outfits.

Oh, how you do suffer for beauty.

You don′t like exploring, but you must confess that you _do_ like the idea of eventually setting off for somewhere with proper laundry and dry-cleaning facilities. To be quite honest, though, at this point you would settle for an old washtub with soapy hot water. You could do what Jill so charmingly terms ′trailer park laundry′ and stomp all the soot out into the soap and water before smoothing it out on a stump and hanging it up to dry in the sun. A bit rough for your admittedly delicate sensibilities, but you will do whatever it takes to restore your proper professional countenance.

* * *

 _FedoraFreak has submitted the following matters in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :

FedoraFreak – eureka.  
FedoraFreak – stand by for clarification re: enthusiastic outburst.  
FedoraFreak – yes. it is as hoped for beyond hope.  
FedoraFreak – unusual devices may be used to duplicate fresh, perfectly pressed garments. inexhaustibly, afaik.  
FedoraFreak – reconstructing complete professional ensemble now - hold.  
FedoraFreak – pleased to report restoration of dapper visage an overwhelming success.

FedoraFreak – alas, devices appear to hold no such promise for departed family members, misplaced hand-held steam press.

* * *

You take a deep breath, inhaling the heavenly scent of clean, freshly-pressed, and perfectly fashionable gentlemen′s clothing—a crisp powder-blue dress shirt, a plain but stylish silk tie, colored such a dark blue that it′s nearly black, and a neat blazer and slacks in the same color as the tie. Your shoes are comfortable and in beautiful repair, all smooth black shining leather contoured perfectly around your large and admittedly clumsy-looking feet. Yes, truly a blossoming bouquet of beautifully heady aromas. So fresh and crisp and clean and new. It has raised your confidence and cheer to a remarkable level, and you feel much like yourself again.

You were unable to restore your son or your friends back to life, regrettably, but it wasn′t like you were honestly expecting to be able to. No, that would be far too easy... and it seems like the game isn′t going to make a single thing even remotely easy for you. At least you tried. As you tell your students, there is always something to be said for effort!

You pick up your carefully-detailed notes from the side of the punch-card machine and prepare to head downstairs in order to type them up and send them to Leo for his perusal and documentation. Hopefully this will be a lot of help to your colleagues. It won′t be of much use to Jill, who isn′t particularly interested in fashion (much less men′s fashion), but you will nonetheless be delighted to inform her of the incredible utility of the machine, just in case she would like to recreate that charming fedora she likes so much—the one with the pinstriped ribbon around it, and the Nightmare Before Christmas fellow on a pin at the side of it. While it is a little, er, _whimsical_ for your personal tastes, it suits her, and you simply cannot bring yourself to disagree with the classic and stylish look of a fedora, no matter what manner of whimsical doodaddery has been added to it.

You smile as you saunter down the stairs and merrily swirl around on the ball of your foot at the bottom, fairly bouncing towards the study and simply enjoying the feel of clean, freshly-scented cloth and the spring of the perfect leather and rubber in your new shoes. The papers in your hand shuffle and flutter like the wings of restless birds, and you find it a relaxing sound. Any sound is good, really. It′s a bit too quiet around here, with Kyle out of the house and your Glenn Miller playlist at an end.

You set your papers down at the side of the computer keyboard and pull your chair out to sit down once more, only to suddenly catch on to a new and not particularly comforting sound floating in through the cracked bay window.

_scritch scratch scritch scratch scritch scratch_

More unwelcome visitors, you suppose. You sigh, annoyed—you will have to find a way to see them off for good this time, as you simply cannot tolerate such rude interruptions. You are doing incredibly important work, after all!

_scritch scratch scritch scratch scritch scratch_

Again you search for an object to allocate to your Strife Deck, rather more seriously this time. You are still not enamored of the idea of bloodying your bare fists against them; if what Jill and Greg have told you is true, it will not do much good anyway, because they have at least one layer of armor to them, and what use is a bare fist against armor? Not much use at all, that′s what. So, rather than flailing about in a futile attempt to wallop these rapscallions, you must find some other, more efficient way. It′s an unpleasant business, but in the end, it must be done for your peace and safety. A necessary evil, if you will.

_scritch scratch scritch scratch scritch scratch_

Recalling Leo′s sage advice, you pick up a book (concerning the careful treatment and preservation of delicate antique materials, and how to restore them if some previous owner was not so attentive and gentle). It isn′t very heavy. Probably won′t do a lot of good. You neatly re-shelf it in just the right place and dig around in the umbrella stand in the corner instead, taking out an old willow walking-stick. You haven′t used it in a couple of years, not since the divorce. You used to use it a lot when Lila took you on her expeditions; it helped ease the aching in your lower back, which tends to flare up when you overexert yourself, which is unfortunately quite easy to do, because you are not used to strenuous adventuring. You are used to sitting in a cushy air-conditioned office, on an expensive ergonomic chair, grading essays or building models or doing puzzles. Sometimes, if you feel _really_ wild, you sit in your armchair and mend the wear and tear in your clothing until your wrist gets sore. But you must shamefully confess that you don′t exercise nearly as much as you should.

No matter how slow or clunky you may be in wielding it, you think the willow stick will do well to discourage tomfoolery of the sort that Jill and Greg have described being visited upon their houses. You very much dislike the idea of resorting to violence—it′s a bit much for a gentleman like yourself—but if the angry little rapscallions piling up on your doorstep will not listen to stern yet rational words, you may have to resort to stern drubbings with the sturdy willow stick. And you do not think they _will_ listen to reason, but it′s well worth a try, no? Of course it is.

You lean the walking stick up against the desk and take off your suit jacket, slightly miffed to have to discard such a perfect garment so soon after putting it on. You neatly hang it on the coatrack next to the desk, then roll up the long sleeves of your fine, crisply-pressed powder-blue dress shirt. That will rumple it slightly, which is annoying, but it′s better to have it slightly rumpled than it is to have it torn in a scuffle. You are not sure where your sewing kit is amidst all this chaos, so it′s best to prevent rips and tears the best that you can.

You carefully peep out of the narrow rectangular window next to the front door, gripping the willow stick tightly. For a moment, you pointlessly entertain the hope that a friendly visitor will be waiting on the other side, then immediately discard that possibility. All of your remaining friends are stranded in some distant void, so far that you cannot even see the faintest flicker of their porch lights. You doubt they will be showing up on your doorstep anytime soon.

No, the only thing waiting on your front porch is a cluster of—what did Greg call them? Imps? Yes, that sounds right. A cluster of Imps is crowded on your porch, looking like a pack of mean-spirited trick-or-treaters at Halloween, complete with silly costumes. A couple of them are busily destroying your sturdy plastic furniture, using their nasty yellow claws to slice through the legs (like a hot knife through soft butter) and slash the fluffy floral-print cushions, leaving the cotton guts all over the place. Some are tapping and scratching at the half-melted remains of the windows that overlook the porch, pressing their boxy, smushed faces against the bubbled glass. Their blank white eyes roll around, blindly searching for one thing—you. There is a stupid kind of hate in those eyes. One look and you can tell that they cannot be reasoned with; all they know, all they can possibly comprehend, is violence. Their claws and teeth are sharp and reaching, ready to rend your tender freckled flesh, and though you cannot understand their gurgling language, you can nevertheless understand that _they want you reduced to ribbons_.

For a moment, you think one catches sight of you through the front-door window, and you jump, pressing your back against the door. Without realizing it, you hold your breath until your chest feels tight and your head swims. You toss your head, as if shaking off sleep, and hiccup a little until you remember to actually catch your breath.

It′s all very easy to build yourself up to be brave when the monsters aren′t actually knocking down your door. It′s much harder to take some action when their ugly little faces are pressed against your windows, each howling for your blood.

You hiccup again, leaning heavily on the stick, as if it will impart some of Lila′s adventurous attitude by osmosis if you just squeeze it hard enough.

No, it isn′t easy... but again, you suppose it′s necessary.

You take a deep breath and fumble for the doorknob with your free hand.

Now or never.

The gurgling monsters are silent for a moment... before they start laughing, all hoarse and distorted—a grim parody of laughter, really. Their gleefully-bared fangs glisten in the shine of the porchlight. You very nearly slam the door in their faces. But what good would that do, now that they know you′re there and you′re so very close?

So you raise your willow stick and step over the threshold onto the porch.

* * *

At the end of the fray, you slump against the doorframe, totally exhausted.

Your lungs are tight and hot, as if being squeezed with a red-hot vise. You pant and puff heavily, but you seem to be regaining some control over your breathing. For that alone, you feel you can breathe a sigh of relief! For awhile, you really wondered if you were going to suffer a cruel and ironic fate—to defeat the Imps single-handedly, armed only with a broken stick, only to collapse and have a stroke or a heart attack on your own front porch.

You′re still not a hundred percent certain that you _won′t_.

Your lower back prickles with a hundred hot little pins and needles. You never want to move again; every time you feel up to the challenge of standing, your back burns again, so you slump back into place to placate your screaming nerves.

You cannot even pull yourself up with your hands.

The skin of your knuckles is split and most of your hand is stained with a sticky layer of blood. Your fingers are pierced with splinters from the willow stick, which snapped in half over the crumpled fedora of a dark purple Imp. Some of the splinters were plucked out with your neatly-trimmed fingernails, but there are some remaining quite stubbornly lodged in your skin.

Your hands are not meant for this; at first glance, they appear strong and callused, like a proper working man′s, but your strength comes from creating and repairing furniture. You are not a destroyer, or even a protector; you are a simple creator. You don′t know how to fight, and, with this experience, you can′t say that you like it one bit. You can barely even say that you _fought_ the Imps, so much as you just thrashed about and really got lucky with where your fists wound up.

You sigh and rest your aching head against the cool painted wood of the doorframe.

Still, no matter how broken your body may feel, you′re glad that you can feel it at all, because that means you′re still alive. Quite frankly, you weren′t expecting to come out of this tiff all in one piece, so you can rightfully consider yourself well ahead of the game′s nefarious designs. You will take your victories, however small, wherever you can find them.

Your phone jingles, and you manage to find the strength to pluck it from your pocket and press the green answer button. All you can wheeze to the caller is a weary ′hey.′ Which isn′t quite as eloquent or as polite as you like, but with the way your chest is feeling, it′s the best you can do.

″Oh, good, you′re alive!″ Jill′s familiar husky voice rumbles from the other end of the line.

″Of course I am. Why wouldn′t I be?″ You try to chuckle, but it just devolves into a hacking cough. You are absolutely parched! You almost feel like dragging yourself into the kitchen to get a glass of water before you remember that the water is not working. Well, perhaps there′s some of Kyle′s Sunny Delight left in the refrigerator. It′s a bit sweet for you, but if it will enable you to speak without sounding like a particularly hoarse frog, you will tough it out and accept the cavities you have coming following its consumption.

″I just got a sense, boss,″ she replies. Even after knowing her for a few years, you have no idea if she is joking or not. ″I got a little tickle in my mind and felt like I had to check up on you right away. If that makes sense. Which it probably doesn′t. You haven′t done anything too taxing, have you?″

You rasp out a short, bark-like laugh as you adjust your silk tie with a bloodied hand.

″There′s my answer, I guess.″

″Really, Jill, you needn′t worry about me. I may look like a teddy bear, but let me tell you, old Doctor Brinner is a class-A scrapper!″ Even though she cannot see you, you flex your free arm like a circus strongman and immediately regret it, wincing in pain. You lay it back down in your lap. ″May I ask how the lady is faring?″

″She′s faring quite well,″ she responds. You can hear a little smile in her voice, and that makes you feel just a touch better. ″But she would be better if she knew the boss-man wasn′t killing himself.″

″Perish the thought, my dear!″ You wave a hand dismissively. ″I am made of far sterner stuffs than you credit me for.″ There is a short pause before you chuckle and adjust your hat with your free hand. ″So, precisely what nasty fate did you fear befell me, if I may ask? Perhaps if I am forewarned, I may take precautions to avoid it.″

″I dunno. I just had this weird feeling all of a sudden. Vague and nonspecific feelings of dread. Like everything was ruined and our future was sure gonna be a bleak one without you. There′s just so much that could happen, you know?″

″Monsters, tripping hazards, slippery stairs, dehydration, starvation...″ You frown. ″Hmm. Upon reflection, I can see why you were worried. But it′s quite all right! I won′t let this game work its nefarious designs against us! I will _personally_ ensure that we not only survive, but _thrive_!″

″You′re a real gent, boss,″ she chuckles. It′s an unfamiliar sound, but one that you find cheering. ″Sorry to bother you. Were you in the middle of something?″

″I was just restoring my wardrobe! I fear the dress shirt is a little rumpled from... uh... from a bit of a skirmish...″ Awkward pause. ″Look, I′m all right. Slightly sore, and my dress shirt is wrinkled, but I can reproduce them endlessly, as far as I can tell!″

″Your shirt, while doubtlessly dapper, is not what I′m worried about.″

″I know.″ You sigh. ″But that′s what has suffered the most damage in the skirmish, you will be pleased to find!″ You decide to omit the details of your present condition, so that you do not worry her needlessly. Considering how shredded the shirt′s sleeves are, it isn′t _exactly_ a lie, is it? You make a further note to produce another dress shirt to replace this one... once you can move again. ″How about you, Jill? What have you been up to? Is your whimsical skeleton fedora intact?″

″It′s fine. It′s on my bedside table, and I′ve managed to keep the critters away out of my room so far.″

″Splendid!″ At least one of you is the proud owner of a completely intact hat, no matter how spoiled by needless extra whimsicality it may be. ″If it gets scuffed or rumpled, I would be happy to offer a code to replace it. I have managed to collect quite an assortment of plain (yet incredibly fashionable) items this evening, and I have noted each combination in detail for the benefit of my colleagues. But I do feel somewhat odd, not having anything to offer you!″ She′s never understood your interest in fashion. You suppose it′s largely a pastime belonging to those of a more masculine persuasion. Lila never quite understood it, either, although she did gift you with many spectacular hats and luxurious ties over the years. At least you had dear Mr Egbert next door. There was a man who understood the finer points of finery! Oh, if only he were still about—he would have loved to hear such an adventure story! ′You′re accruing quite the cache of man-grit, Doctor Brinner!′ he would have said, nodding approvingly.

″Well, stay in one piece, and we′ll call it even, how about that?″

″I believe I can manage that.″ You chuckle weakly and manage to fold your legs up under you. You′re still rather beaten and sore, but you feel like it′s safe to start attempting to stand up and make your way to the refrigerator for that Sunny Delight (you are just _parched_!) and some gauze from the kitchen first-aid kit in order to dress your hands. Then, upstairs to the Alchemiter, to replace your dress shirt. Then, back down to the study to fill Leo in on your notes. A gentleman′s stiff upper lip is never sullied, no matter what misfortunes he has suffered! Therefore you will carry on with your business. Your colleagues and their impressive wardrobes await your input, after all. ″One more thing, Jill—would you mind documenting your escapades for me?″

″Sure, I got a camera on my phone. I′ll text pictures to you. Assuming it doesn′t get slapped out of my hand by a monster at some point.″

″I appreciate it! I believe that it would be a good idea to remain in constant contact and tightly coordinate our activities, so that we can all meet up later. Perhaps have a little lunch together—although I confess that it would be somewhat meager, given the scant contents in my kitchen. I meant to go grocery shopping in the morning... Anyway, I believe that, if we keep a constant stream of information flowing between the four of us, we can lick this game but good!″ It feels good to say that. It makes you feel like you have some kind of direction, some purpose, and that gives you a little tingle of energy in your sore spine.

″Can do, boss.″ She laughs. ″Funny you should mention a picnic. I was just packing my Sylladex full of food, because I honestly didn′t think you would remember. I thought you would just walk off and get lost in your, uh, enthusiasm. Hope you don′t mind dollar-store peanut butter and Wonder Bread. Or cold ramen noodles.″

″Not at all!″ You carefully begin to climb to your feet, using the doorframe to hold your tottering shape steady. ″I appreciate you thinking of me. So, for you, I will bring along some Sunny Delight and Twinkies to share. I was going to take them to Kyle′s baseball practice, but...″ You sigh a little. ″I suppose that′s moot now, isn′t it?″

″I guess so, yeah.″

″So, I will do the next best thing and give them to you! I don′t care for sweets, so they′re rather useless to me. When we meet up, we′ll sit and have a picnic, and we′ll map out our strategies and swap information! How does that sound?″

″Sounds swell. You sure you′re all right?″

″Of course I am,″ you say dismissively. In the process of pulling yourself up, you almost topple, but grab the doorknob at the last second and manage to stay mostly upright. Part of your unsteadiness is due to the ache in your feet and the burning in your lower back. The other part is that you are very, _very_ thirsty, and the dehydration may be starting to take effect. What you wouldn′t do for a nice, fresh bottle of water! Even just one swallow of tap water would work miracles. Alas, you have no access to water. All you have had to consume this long, long evening is a few swallows of some, uh, rather unsavory fluids that you are in absolutely no hurry to imbibe again. ″I′m quite excited about all of this cloak-and-dagger business. I feel like a proper gentleman spy. Especially now that I have a proper outfit for such skulduggery!″

″Maybe I should cobble together a funky lady-spy costume,″ she snickers.

″Oh, yes, that would be marvelous! We could coordinate our outfits on a theme, to present a true united front to whatever we may encounter. A tuxedo for me... perhaps a striking, militaristic ladies′ outfit for you? Perhaps something reminiscent of the Women′s Army Corps outfits from World War Two? I don′t think you would enjoy formal evening wear...″

″Oh, Dr B,″ she sighs, with some exasperated affection.

″You know how I am, Jill.″

″Yeah, I know.″

″But this is a rather momentous occasion, is it not? We may be entering a whole new world, for all we know, and I would like to make a good impression. That′s all.″ You totter and stumble carefully towards the back of the stairs, where the guest bathroom awaits, with a crumpled and unusable fedora perched neatly on the lid. Once you are finished speaking with your assistant, you will answer nature′s call. Though you suppose that, with your current state of dehydration, you might be eliminating dust more than anything else. Which is worrying.

″Okay, fine.″ She makes a big show of sighing, as if she is deeply afflicted by a tremendous thorn in her side, but you have no doubt her lips are twitching into that odd half-smile as she does it. She really doesn′t mind—so she is always certain to remind you. If you _must_ survive the meteor apocalypse with only a handful of other people—well, you would have _really_ liked to have Lila, Kyle, and the Egberts by your side, but Jill, Leo, and Greg are running a very, very close second for pleasant afterlife company. ″I′ll be on my best behavior. And I will consider dressing up nicely, but in the end, I probably won′t, seeing as I don′t have much nice stuff to dress up in.″

″Ah, well, I tried.″ You smile. ″Now, onward and upward!″

″Sure thing. See you on the other side!″ she says pleasantly.

″I certainly hope so! Farewell, Jill. And I really mean that—fare well!″

″Now, don′t you worry your pretty little head about that, Dr B.″

The two of you hang up, and you slip your phone back into your pocket.

You make your scheduled stop at the guest bathroom and note that you really need to hydrate more. You also really need to reach a place with laundry facilities and indoor plumbing, because this is quite frankly disgusting and ungentlemanly—using an old fedora as a waste receptacle. But with the water lines cut, you have no other way to get rid of waste. And if worst comes to worst... well, you′ll have _that_ , won′t you? The thought alone makes you retch. But... if you ever really need it...

You shake your head, as if the thought is coated in noxious slime.

You will do anything to live, and to beat this nefarious game, but you do hope it doesn′t come down to that. You tried it earlier—just in case—and were not at all fond of it, spitting it all over the useless bathroom sink and chasing the rank taste from your mouth with a fistful of saltine crackers crammed down your gullet all at once. Which only served to further dehydrate you. It was a most regretful and hasty decision. You have since attempted to make much more carefully-considered choices.

You Captchalogue the crumpled, useless hat for easy disposal later and shuffle it to the far bottom of your thankfully tremendous (and possibly nearly bottomless) Wallet, so that it cannot possibly interact with any of the other items.

Afterward, you return to your errands.

* * *

You are pleased to find that you can adjust the color and design of your freshly-created clothing with a few simple tweaks to the punchcard codes and patterns.

Blue, being a cool and calming shade, is not a very good traveling color, so you replace the tattered, rumpled, blood-stained outfit you wore during the skirmish with a more monochromatic ensemble. Crisp white shirt. Black-and-gray striped silk tie. Black blazer (slightly casual, but you would like to portray a relaxed and welcoming visage to whatever you may encounter on the other side). Black leather driving gloves (to avoid further splinters, and to cover the dressings that you wrapped around your sore and bloody hands). Black slacks. And, to complete the look, a handsome gray fedora to match the tie and balance the color (or lack thereof) a little bit.

You wonder what else you could make, equipped with this valuable and tantalizing knowledge.

Before proceeding with further experimentation, you decide to update your colleagues on this exciting development.

* * *

 _FedoraFreak has submitted the following matters in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :

FedoraFreak – update on device utility - combinative apparel synthesis presents intriguing possibilities.  
FedoraFreak – now combining expensive leather pipe tobacco sleeve with handsome, gray fedora.  
FedoraFreak – to document result shortly.  
FedoraFreak – resulted in hat w/ outlandish and frivolous appearance.  
FedoraFreak – do not care for; shall discard immediately.  
FedoraFreak – combination of pant, fine cotton shirt even more disappointing.  
FedoraFreak – yielded useless, excessively tall pant; relieving from wardrobe at once.

* * *

You receive no answers from your colleagues, but you trust that they have received this update and its accompanying notes safely and are now enthusiastically applying your advice. You see no reason to believe otherwise.

You do not want to gamble any other valuable items in your greatly reduced wardrobe, so you decide to cease your experimentation for now and head back downstairs to the study to give Leo the full extent of your notes.

The fifth stair squeaks reassuringly as you head down, humming a few snatches from In the Mood as you go along. Perhaps it′s the dehydration and the accompanying delirium setting in, but you find your spirits once again lifted. The schedule is back on track, after being thrown off by that rather unsavory business with the monsters on the front step. And it′s good to be back! You can′t wait to rendezvous with your colleagues—in part because you are certain that, with your combined skills and intellect, you will be able to make short work of whatever hazards and obstacles the game throws your way, and in part because you simply miss the presence of other people. You are not a man who thrives on his lonesome; you need companionship, whether the, uh, earthy presence of your assistant, or the youthful exuberance of your son (your poor, dear son!), or the wise and judicious advice of your venerated peers, like Mr Egbert (poor Mr Egbert).

Though you only spoke to Mr Egbert a few hours ago, you already feel a kind of cabin fever settling in. Your house isn′t what troubles you, though; it′s the emptiness, the space, the _loneliness_. You could be in your house forever, just enjoying your books and models and puzzles and antiques, and you would be perfectly happy... if only Kyle was upstairs doing his homework, or if Lila was delivering a thermos of coffee, or if Mr Egbert was over to trade novel fashion accessories (he was the previous owner of that handsome leather pipe-tobacco sleeve that went into the creation of the shamefully frivolous hat—you don′t smoke, yourself). If you knew someone was there, if you knew someone was coming soon, then you could be happy here forever.

But you know no one will come for you.

You hear rattling at the door again and you groan. However desperate for companionship you may be, you aren′t desperate enough to lower yourself to keeping company with loathsome little frog-monsters.

You don′t think you can take another fight just yet, not with your hands still sore and bloody as they are, or as sore as your back is. (You make a mental note to find your heating pad and rest awhile, when things are not so hectic.)

So you quickly dart downstairs to your study and take cover under the desk again, taking the keyboard with you. Since you might be down there awhile, you might as well get some work done. You slowly begin hunting and pecking each letter, trying not to make too much noise as you work.

For some time, you are absorbed in your work, hoping that your messages to Leo look more like ″combined fashionable winter muffler && matching, frightfully casual corduroy sportcoat – resulted in rugged yet strangely handsome poncho, will reserve for possible future use″ and less like ″fdsklxjiodjsfopasdksalajkdsal && fdksldfjdslldsfrieworewo – rdfkslzzzeafsnf fdslfspemmen.″ You can′t see the screen, which is what you usually look at when you′re typing something. You just lose track when you look at the keyboard itself. So you certainly hope that your messages are legible. Though it is quite amusing to imagine clever, capable Leo scratching his head in confusion. As far as you know, it would be the first time that he was ever stymied by something.

You only look up from your slow but earnest typing when you hear your name being called by an incredibly familiar voice.

It′s _your_ voice.

″I thought I would let you know that I′ve finished laundering some items upstairs,″ your voice says, although it doesn′t come out of you. You even gently rub your throat to make sure you didn′t speak. ″It was a difficult task, but having been granted these wondrous spirit powers, I seem to be able to make use of the crushed steam press despite its state of disrepair.″

A glowing blue-gray spirit wafts into the study, and it′s as if you are looking into a funhouse mirror.

It′s _you_.

Staring back at you is the same thin but cheerful face—the same smile-crinkled, gentle gray eyes—the same freckles dusted across the nose—the same thinning hair. While your skin is pale with occasional darker freckles and your hair is sandy, his skin, freckles, and hair are all tinted blue-gray—but otherwise, you are exactly the same. The thinning hair is partially covered by the crumpled fedora that you found while investigating the Alchemiter—the same one that you threw at the will-o-the-wisp in annoyance. In his hand is the crushed steam press. Little stray wisps of steam coil and curl around his ghostly wrists, although there isn′t any water in the machine.

″I apologize for my delay. I would have assisted in the fray, but there were items that needed cleaning and pressing right away, before they wrinkled, or before the soot set in for good,″ he says. ″I wish I could explain my abilities, but alas, I do not know how I was granted them...″

″That′s all right. I won′t complain about a fresh and clean suit!″ You smile brightly, and the spirit mirrors it. ″Although I can reproduce them infinitely on those marvelous machines, I do rather enjoy a suit that already knows my shape—do you know what I mean?″

″Oh, indeed!″

For a moment, you cheerfully think, _how wondrous it is to have company again_! Then the depressing realization that you′re basically still talking to yourself sinks in, and you slouch slightly. Oh well. Beggars can′t be choosers, can they? And aren′t there always those stressful days where you suspect you may be the only intelligent company you may have? It isn′t one of those days today, but the principle is kind of the same.

″So I have gone to the trouble of laundering a selection of fine suits that I think you will find to your liking. I thought you should be prepared for your journey upwards,″ the ghost-you says.

″Marvelous! I was already working on preparing myself, but many hands make light work—so your assistance is more than welcome! May I ask what items you laundered?″ According to the others, your sprite will never give you a straight answer. But you think that, if you are clever enough, you can squeeze some hints out of him. After all, he is you, and to be frank, you don′t think you would catch on to manipulative, leading questions if asked. Logically, neither would he. You. Whatever. This whole business is confusing enough without pronoun and identity troubles. Moving on.

″I returned to the emergency hideaway in the garage and collected the ties. Fortunately, all were unaffected by the heat and dust, so they were fairly easy to clean and straighten. The hats were, unfortunately, less agreeable to cleaning. They remain crumpled and unsightly.″ He shudders in tandem with you. ″I also found the woolen items that you left on the bed and gave those a good clean. I believe I got the majority of the soot out. There may be a ghost of a scent of smoke left—I apologize, I just couldn′t figure out how to remove it!″

″Hmm. Unpleasant, but unavoidable—if I don′t know how to remove it, it makes sense that you wouldn′t, either.″ So, the woolen items were what he retrieved and cleaned. That may imply that you are headed for a cooler place. But to be fair, you wouldn′t put it beyond the game to lead you in directly the opposite way—to dump you into some miserable, hellishly hot place. It would be wise to prepare for both, just in case, but shuffle the more likely items towards the front of your Wallet. Or you could just ask more leading questions. ″Would you mind terribly retrieving them? I would like to stock my Sylladex and make some more items to prepare myself for my journey.″

″I can certainly retrieve them! But, er, making more items might be... a touch difficult.″

″Why so?″ You frown.

″You see, the machines require a type of... fuel, if you will, in order to create these garments. You Captchalogue the items and punch the cards with the Punch Designix, yes, but that isn′t all that goes into making them! There are certain other item requirements that must be met, and we have run out of that fuel.″

″Oh.″ You slouch again. ″So, how can we obtain more, in order to facilitate further accessorizing? I am in definite need of a new hat that isn′t crumpled or reeking of smoke.″

″How do we obtain more? The hard way, of course!″ he chuckles apologetically. ″Would you expect it any other way?″

″No, of course not. I′m not surprised.″ You flash a cynical grin. ″So—what is the ′hard way,′ if I may ask?″

″Fighting Imps and other, fiercer creatures—collecting the glittering ′grist′ gems that they drop once vanquished.″

″Oh dear.″ You sigh. There really should be some kind of obvious signal that you have those gems, and that you are running low on them. Otherwise you could have saved the fuel expended making that frivolous hat and the silly trousers. And then you wouldn′t have to risk life and limb to remain fashionable and presentable. ″Do I have any choice?″

″You always have a choice. A multitude of them! It just depends on which you prefer—do you prefer to remain here, alone and bare-headed, or would you prefer to struggle and fight and conquer and, eventually, remake your wardrobe and meet your friends?″

″Well, clearly, there is only one logical choice here. You know I hate being alone. Almost as much as I hate being without a hat. But it′s a bit of a hard pill to swallow, isn′t it? I already tore myself up once today fighting some rather low-level enemies. I am not at all enthusiastic to do it again.″

″I understand.″ Your double smiles lamely. ″If I′m honest, part of the reason I dallied with my laundry chores was because I was quite afraid to join the battle downstairs.″

″I understand.″ You mirror his expression. ″I was quite afraid to join it myself, and I was the one they were looking for!″

″So what will you—we—do?″

″We do what we can, my friend! We do what we can.″ You stand up straight and adjust your hat and tie. ″Or, at the very least, we try. Now, l shall outfit myself in the most practical and fashionable manner possible with what I have on hand, and hope that it is good enough to last me in whatever strange surroundings I find myself in. First, I shall facilitate continued accessorizing. Then, I shall search for my friends. Then, we will strategize and conquer this game!″

You know that the game will make you work for everything—and it will work you until you′re sore and bloody and possibly even dead.

So work you will.

First, you will need to organize your supplies.

You collect all of the photographs of your son and your best friends, as well as several of Kyle′s neatly-framed scribbles. You shuffle them to the top of your Wallet, so that you can more easily remember why you are embarking on this possible suicide mission.

Following that, you collect all of your freshly-cleaned and freshly-created clothing, with the cheerful help of your sprite (who really is a fine fellow, and _dashingly_ handsome, if you do say so yourself!) You wish that you could organize your Wallet the way you usually do, with most-needed items towards the top and lower-priority items lower in the deck, but you have absolutely no clue what you need. You don′t know where you′re going. So you just pile everything in and hope for the best, which is how you have been proceeding with your activities most of the evening.

You retrieve your notes regarding the combinative devices. You haven′t given Leo all of them yet, unfortunately, but you feel as though you have relayed to him the most important item combinations. Enough to get the two of them started, anyway! They are creative and clever men. Surely they can extrapolate customized wardrobes from the information on hand. You are more than confident in their abilities.

The last thing you pile into your Wallet is the case of Sunny Delight and the box of Twinkies hidden in the kitchen breadbox. You daren′t show your sunny smiling face to your lovely assistant without them. She was counting on a picnic, and what is a picnic without drinks and snacks? A pretty poor excuse for a picnic, that′s what.

The very last thing that you do is take a long, slow stroll around your house.

Partly because you are procrastinating—you don′t want to leave. It′s _your_ house. More than that, it′s your _home_. You′ve graded ten years of English essays here. Your son lived here for thirteen straight years. Your wife lived here for eleven of them. How many of those years did you spend building this hallowed place? Carefully painting the walls just the right colors, applying just the right pattern of wallpaper, adding just the right piece of handsomely-restored furniture? A lifetime, that′s how much. You may be in your late thirties, but you can hardly recall a day before this house in fine detail, except perhaps for the day you met Lila, and the day you married her. Everything before and between is something of a blur.

This is a warm place, familiar and happy, despite the destruction rained down upon it over the course of the evening.

Your wife and son and your friend and his son are no longer here, but their ghosts may as well float around here. You can almost feel them there—you can almost hear Kyle yelling at his unseen, unheard opponent on the Gamestation, smell Mr Egbert′s expensive pipe-tobacco, see a vague and blurry outline of Lila trying to cheer up a sad Doctor Brinner collapsed on the couch.

You don′t want to leave.

Well... in a way... you guess you′ll still be here, won′t you? A part of you, anyway. Your sprite informs you that he cannot accompany you. You smile brightly and tell him that he can keep laundering whatever items you did not end up stuffing into your Wallet.

You′ll be coming back someday, you tell him, both knowing that it′s a bald-faced lie.

You wish you could stay... just a little longer...

Alas, you cannot.

The friends who remain are waiting for you, somewhere or another.

And a gentleman does not keep his friends waiting.

* * *

 _FedoraFreak has submitted the following matters in a frank and forthright manner for the judicious appraisal of his peers_ :

FedoraFreak – made unwelcome determination. production requires expense of glittering abstractions called grist.  
FedoraFreak – such jewels remaining in cache, libation in reserve, at premium.  
FedoraFreak – consumed final swallow of carefully rationed urine. soon to seek water elsewhere in exotic new surroundings.  
FedoraFreak – more importantly, to seek grist facilitating continued accessorizing.  
FedoraFreak – note to self: use spoils to make more hats.  
FedoraFreak – preparing for expedition to reap gems from mischievous local fauna.  
FedoraFreak – crafted sturdy bludgeoning instrument out of uprooted mailbox.  
FedoraFreak – tall pant perhaps adaptable as defensive garment.  
FedoraFreak – pardon while donning tall pant.  
FedoraFreak – donned tall pant.  
FedoraFreak – confidence in martial prowess perplexingly swells.  
FedoraFreak – venturing out; powering down gray, serviceable hand-held computing device to preserve battery.  
FedoraFreak – additional updates to be submitted in a frank and forthright manner for judicious appraisal within a reasonable timeframe.  
FedoraFreak – tia for patience.


	7. -- Land of Dust and Ruin --

_the wind is harsh_

bringing with it a scourge of coarse red sand

_the sun is relentless_

turning the glittering desert into a glaring prism

_the scarlet sand is endless_

flat, featureless, _forever_

_it smells of rot and age_

ancient bones and scrolls long reduced to dust

_the ground is parched and cracked_

like the skin of some great dragon long since slain

_the heat rises through your shoes_

like you are walking on the sun

_it is a dead place_

_alone you stand_

_beneath the scorching sun and scourging sand_

* * *

 

You take a deep breath, filling your lungs with the fragrant, dusty decay, then sigh.

The scarlet grit kicked up by the red wind coils around you, as if curiously exploring the new addition to the ancient landscape. It harshly lashes at your sensitive skin, already blistering under the cruel heat of the sun. Sweat is already starting to soak your fashionable and well-assembled suit.

As much as you don′t want to, you must rethink your fashion choices and aim for practicality first and foremost.

You shed your warm woolen suit jacket and carefully Captchalogue it for later. Just in case you need it. It is quickly replaced with the much lighter muffler-poncho you made out of your winter scarf and your corduroy casual sportcoat. It covers your skin, preventing the sore sunburn that′s already brewing, and more importantly, it adequately hides your absurdly tall slacks (god forbid any creature, man or beast, see you in such a ridiculous garment—you would die of shame). The muffler is pulled up around the lower half of your face to protect your nose and throat from the coarse red sand. Your throat is parched enough without being coated by that rotten dust.

The sleeves of your crisp white dress-shirt are rolled up underneath the poncho, in the hopes that you can cool yourself down at least a little bit. Your tie is likewise loosened a little, to allow for easier breathing. The air is surprisingly hard to swallow—it isn′t at all like the pleasantly damp air that you are used to breathing back home. It′s thin and hot and sharp, like a breeze full of needles.

Once satisfied with your attire, you point your shining black leather shoes at the horizon.

And you begin walking towards the sun.


	8. Nightmares and Dreamscapes

 

  * DuskyDahlia (DD) began pestering 2busy4this (2B)! –



 

DD: hey 2b

DD: leo

DD: what′s up

2B: packing my sylladex.

2B: double-checking its contents against an itemized list.

2B: if ff and the sprite are to be believed, we may never see our homes again.

2B: it would be wise to secure your valuables.

DD: should be easy

DD: don′t have any

2B: i see.

DD: so where do you think we′re gonna end up

2B: to be quite honest, i cannot even begin to guess.

2B: every imaginable source of information is rather reticent regarding details.

2B: the sprites are infuriatingly cryptic.

2B: and there is no way to peer through the holes in the sky to see.

2B: although.

DD: although what

2B: you will believe that i have gone mad.

DD: whatever it is it′s probably the least weird thing i′ll hear or see today

DD: so let′s have it

2B: well.

2B: lately, when i sleep, i dream of a particular place.

2B: a violet kingdom peopled with strange chess-piece creatures.

2B: i wake up—in my dreams—in a tower that scrapes the sky.

2B: a tower furnished with everything that i could ever want or need.

2B: and i have adventures there.

2B: flying. exploring.

2B: i believe that perhaps it′s a sign, although i am not typically disposed to believe in signs.

2B: certain recent events, however, have resulted in a considerable upheaval of what i believe to be true of my life and of reality in general.

2B: perhaps we are bound for that violet kingdom.

DD: weird that you mention that

2B: oh?

DD: cos i dream about it too

2B: oh?

2B: hm.

2B: might you be my neighbor in the adjacent tower?

DD: might be

DD: but who knows

DD: anyway i was right

DD: this is the least weird thing i′ve heard or seen today

DD: it′s weird how you adjust isn′t it

2B: indeed.

2B: hmm.

2B: perhaps we can take a nap together.

DD: wow you move fast 2b

DD: buy me a drink first

2B: i am quite certain that you are deliberately misunderstanding my intention.

DD: you′re no fun

2B: yes, i know. it′s one of my chief failings. among many, i will admit.

2B: but perhaps i will bring some dream-wine, simply to be polite.

2B: do you prefer white or red? or perhaps rose?

DD: i′m not picky

DD: i usually just pick whatever box has the prettiest picture on it lol

2B: oh 

2B: ohdear

2B: i cannot even begin to say how much i pity you.

DD: yeah whatever i drink it′s usually bottom shelf discount liquor

2B: you poor thing.

2B: now i feel i really must provide you with a fine selection of wines.

2B: to be forced to drink boxed wine! one might as well chug a jug of bathtub gin.

DD: the neighbor′s offered before

DD: but i declined

DD: wasn′t that desperate just yet

2B: well, thank heaven for that.

2B: i fear that our progress might have been arrested by having a member blinded by such poisonous swill.

2B: speaking of progress, where are you?

DD: top of the stairs

DD: just takin a rest

DD: all this beating the grist out of monsters takes it out of ya

2B: yes, it does.

2B: hmm.

2B: as there is something of a lull in activity, perhaps a nap would be beneficial.

2B: not only can we rest up, we can meet.

2B: exchange some reconnaissance.

DD: and drink some dream booze

2B: yes, and drink some dream booze.

2B: a splendid time will be had by all.

DD: should be cool

DD: i′ve managed to clobber all the ogres and stuff with my kickass spike-bat

DD: i think i′ve earned a nap

2B: may i count on your company during this nap?

DD: sure

DD: see you soon

 

  * DuskyDahlia (DD) ceased pestering 2busy4this (2B)! –




 

 

Carefully, you shut down your laptop and Captchalogue it to your Sylladex. You revise your itemized checklist of items to include the computer, simply to ensure that you do not leave a single thing behind, before cross-checking and double-checking between the list and your Sylladex. The last thing you load up is the strange book that you created with the Alchemiter—a vast black tome with an abstract white swirl on the front cover. The pages are somewhat yellowed, as if it were an antique, and there is not a single word inked on them. You thought you saw some for just a moment, but they vanished as soon as you thought that. You don′t mind all that much. It can be used to record your observations, and it is even thicker than your tax code manual, which means it will also be a formidable addition to your Strife Deck. You can think of nothing better than something that serves as both a useful tool and a great weapon.

You double-check everything in your Sylladex one last time before rising from your chair and shuffling towards your bedroom. 

It is most definitely a bachelor′s bedroom. Very bare-bones and minimally decorated, as opposed to your lavish yet comfortable study. The walls are bare and pale, with only one small window at the far side of the room. There is a small, simple oak nightstand next to your long, narrow single bed. The nightstand holds a plain but serviceable lamp with a beige shade. The bed is neatly made, clothed in dull beige bedding hidden under a thick but plain sage-green comforter. Your handsome antique oak dresser is in the far corner, containing all of your fashionable clothing and accessories, but utterly lacking any personal knick-knacks to decorate it. Even your tobacciana collection is tucked away in the very top drawer of the dresser or neatly arranged in your study, rather than out on proud display in your bedroom.

You turn down the corner of your comforter and crawl underneath, shifting and rolling for a few moments until you are perfectly comfortable, curled up in the long, thin shape that you have worn into the pillow-top mattress over however many hundreds of nights that you have slept on it.

You usually don′t fall asleep very easily. Most nights are spent staring at the ceiling for hours while thoughts chase themselves around your mind in circles. The mortgage, the status of your bank account, the past. Not that anything interesting ever happened in your past. You have lived an incredibly routine and uniform life. Your parents were always well-adjusted middle-class folks, always got along, stayed together right up until they died a few years ago. Your sister was slightly boisterous, but always kind and well-meaning. You all lived in a comfortable two-story house in a nice neighborhood, attended nice schools, scored well on all of your tests, graduated near the top of your class. You indulge in your only two vices (tobacco and wine) in moderation, as a gentleman should. Three cigarettes per day (one at breakfast, while you read the paper; one after lunch, as you collect your thoughts on your current investigation; one after dinner, as you sit down to relax). A single glass of wine per night, unless it′s a weekend or a holiday, in which case you take two glasses.

You′re not a _boring_ man, you maintain, just a gentleman.

During the day, while you are working, you are happy. Some people may not be able to tell upon looking, because you do not have a very expressive face, but you are, you genuinely are. You do what you′re good at, you get paid good money to do it, and that money is enough to provide you with the finest selection of the vices you have elected to indulge in. You envy no man.

But at night, when you are staring at the abstract whorls in the ceiling plaster, you begin to think... 

and wonder... 

what might have been, 

what could still be, 

if only, 

if only

somewhere amidst your pondering and reflection 

you begin to 

nod off

and

e v e n t u a l l y

 

 

~

 

You wake up in your room atop the high violet tower, looking down on the sharp spires of the planet below. It is rather more lavish than your bedroom in your home, with an arrangement of wine bottles and tobacciana on the dark shelves that wrap around the wide sphere.

You are wrapped comfortably in your silken violet pajamas—the simple soft trousers, and the stylish smoking jacket with the pink crescent moon stitched on the lapel. Your dark pink slippers squeak softly as you waddle across the room, feeling as though you are walking through a puddle of sticky toffee.

You browse the wine racks, trying to judge by color which one would be the best to share with your new neighbor. The labels, while pretty, are almost entirely useless, because you can read perhaps one or two letters before it all morphs into elegantly meaningless squiggles. It has always been a prime lament of your life that you cannot read in your dreams. Everybody knows that you can′t read in a dream—it′s a battle between brain hemispheres. You wish it weren′t so. If it were up to you, you would go to sleep and immediately continue your investigations and the resulting paperwork. Alas, such abilities continue to elude you, even here in the violet tower, where you can do nearly anything.

You can fly, for one thing.

You let your slippers leave the sticky-toffee ground, and it is the easiest, most natural thing imaginable. One foot off the ground, then the other, and you are floating, bobbing like a cork as you examine your red wines up near the vaulted spherical ceiling of the tower. After much pondering, you select a fine Californian Merlot. You know this brand and vintage well, just by the picture on the otherwise nonsensical label. It′s sweet, with notes of blackberry and black raspberry underlining the crisp tang of the alcohol. A good beginner wine, especially for one who is used to such swill as bottom-shelf boxed liquor. It should be more than suitable for welcoming your neighbor.

You don′t wish to Captchalogue the bottle, so you just hold onto the Merlot tightly as you climb onto the wide arched windowsill at the side of the tower. Your tower has no doors or stairs, so you must leave by the window, like a cat burglar making off with a sack full of diamonds. It is slightly complicated by the fact that you are a tall and wiry man, so you must fold yourself up like an origami swan in order to fit through it. You suspect that these towers are typically meant for people much smaller than you are.

But anyway, you squeeze out through the window successfully and then you are walking through the air. You don′t know why you aren′t just flying, but you aren′t. Maybe it′s to make a good first impression on Doctor Brinner′s assistant. What might she think if she saw you fluttering about like a confused moth around a bug zapper? She might think you are not taking things seriously, and you can think of no worse (and no falser) impression than that.

You draw up just short of the window and extend your empty hand, knocking as hard as you can. The hollow metal globe rings like an iron bell, almost vibrating you out of the sky with its echo. You expect to see someone′s face pop up at the window and welcome you in within seconds, but no one does. So you knock again, careful not to peer in through the open window. Despite your growing concern as to her whereabouts, this is no time for impropriety; a gentleman simply does not peer in through windows.

The third time she fails to answer, and the fourth.

However, instead of relenting and peering through the window, you produce a pocket knife from your smoking jacket, as if by magic, and lever out the cork from the Merlot bottle, sending it shooting in through the window. You hear a loud ′thock!′ like a tennis ball hitting cement, followed by rustling, and finally, a face appears at the window—a heart-shaped face framed by somewhat frizzy dark red hair unsuccessfully pulled back into a braid. You twitch your face around until you′re quite sure you have something that approaches a charming, winning smile and hold up the uncorked Merlot.

_Hey_ , she says, _sorry about the wait, 2b_. She reaches under the wild wisps of hair and pulls some earplugs out of her ears.

_Ah_ , you say, _were you trying to get some..._ You almost ask if she was trying to get some sleep, but that doesn′t make any sense, because you′re both asleep right now anyway, so the question is rather moot.

_Some quiet, yeah_ , she says, graciously saving you from that awkward trail-off. _Wanna come in_? 

You nod, and once again crumple yourself up to squeeze through the window and into the tower, careful not to spill any of the Merlot—although, given the state of disarray, you doubt she would notice.

The room reminds you of a dragon′s lair, one inhabited by a particularly disorganized and absent-minded dragon. There are things scattered everywhere—books, papers covered with neatly-drawn diagrams of dead bodies, plastic skulls with abstract squiggles and small but beautiful landscapes painted on them. On the walls are little glimpses into Hell—lovingly framed prints by some obscure artist with a morbid sensibility. Still, however macabre, you cannot disapprove of someone′s love for the fine arts, and these most definitely qualify; despite the subject matter, the technique is simply masterful.

You admire one for a moment, depicting a pair of emaciated skeletal figures desperately embracing one another. It′s done in muted yellows and foggy grays and muddy browns, and utterly lacking a background. Yet it′s quite lovely, and were you possessed of a romantic disposition, you would certainly call it tragically romantic. _One of yours_? you ask.

_Naw_ , she replies, _I only paint the skulls, never could get the hang of doing stuff on canvas or paper or whatever_.

_Ah_ , you say, moving over to examine one of the skulls sitting on the desk atop a stack of papers detailing the demise of some unfortunate man who was stung to death by a nest full of wasps. You pick the skull up, as if you are about to do the Hamlet soliloquy, and closely observe the details of each squiggle. You never understood the point of abstract art, but you feel that you should make the effort simply to be polite.

_So about that booze_ , she says.

_Yes, yes_ , you say, snapping to attention. _I have selected a fine Merlot—a good red wine, certainly fit for a beginner who is used to sipping complete swill. No offense meant_.

_None taken_ , she says with a shrug.

_I would like to further apologize for a lack of drinking vessels_ , you continue. _I only had one wine glass, because I usually drink alone_.

_That′s about the saddest thing I ever done heard_ , she snickers. _Even I wait until I′m in a park surrounded by people_.

_And you say that my drinking alone is depressing_ , you say. It probably comes out a bit drier than you meant it. You could never get the hang of cheery office banter, either; you politely say hello to the secretary on the way to your cubicle every morning, but you can count the time that you′ve passed more words than that on your hands.

She snickers again. _Anyway, I don′t mind drinking straight from the bottle after you. Cleo Walters in third grade said my cootie shots were good for life. We′re cool_.

_Well, if Cleo Walters said it_ , you reply, trying your hand at the office-banter thing again, _then that′s almost as good as the indisputable confirmation of a reputable peer-reviewed journal, isn′t it_?

You begin to suspect that you may not be very good at this.

Still, she has the grace to chuckle politely, so you offer her the bottle. She takes a mighty swig from it. You almost shudder at the spectacle. A fine wine should, of course, be enjoyed in its totality—its marvelous bouquet, its striking colors and composition, its delicate and subtle flavors, its crisp and alcoholic body—not chugged and choked down like a glass of over-sweetened orange juice. When she passes the bottle back, you take care to drink it properly, hoping that she will learn from the example you provide. You gently waft the scent towards you and breathe it in deep.

_Light, fresh aroma—very fruity_ , you observe; _one can almost ignore the tang of the alcohol on just scent alone_. _I do believe I detect a nice, sweet note of blackberry, among other things._ _Perhaps... yes, a bit of black raspberry, and just a hint of plum. Yet the scents aren′t overpowering. Very clean. Very impressive_.

Jill watches and listens as if she′s watching a particularly interesting yet perplexing circus act. If only you had a hat in your possession, you might be persuaded to pull a rabbit out of it. But you don′t, so you merely take your first small, polite sip of the wine.

_Sweet, yet very well-balanced—the alcohol is tangy, and yet, it′s so beautifully fresh_. You take another measured sip before nodding approvingly to yourself, so absorbed that you almost jump when you hear Jill pipe up from her side of the room.

_You take enough time doing all that and you′re gonna be drinkin′ from a bottle of really fruity vinegar_ , she laughs.

_You could ask for the bottle a little more politely than that_ , you say. You give it to her anyway, because the two of you have business to attend to, and you would like to present your findings first. So you kick aside some of the clutter on the floor and stand up straight, clearing your throat until it is in its prime elucidating tone. _Regarding my earlier theory, I can only assume that this is where we are bound once we leap through our respective... gates, shall we call them? Yes, that seems a suitable name for them_. She nods, prompting you to continue. _I am not familiar with the process or terminology behind ′visions′ and ′signs,′ having never believed in such twaddle before this very evening, but I believe these dream-projections are predictive experiences_.

_Predictive_? She raises an eyebrow.

_Perhaps that isn′t the best of words, but it′s the best that I can think of at the moment. Forgive me_ , you apologize. _What I mean is that we have been allowed these dream-projection abilities in order to prepare ourselves for our destination. I must confess that I do not know what we are meant to do once we have arrived, but I am almost certain that this is where we are bound—for, if we were bound elsewhere, what would be the point of having such involved and detailed experiences here_?

_Sounds legit_ , she says with a shrug.

_I would like to share a few of my visions_ , you continue, _chiefly concerning a few particular symbols. They seem to be a recurring pattern wherever my mind roams in these... projections. Visions. Whichever. I dream of stone beds inscribed with them, and of magnificent new worlds springing up from blood spilled on those stone beds. A silver swirl... a red gear... curling green vines... a white pair of wings_. 

You pause and stroke your neatly-trimmed goatee, frowning in thought, trying to catch the tail of the fleeting image, trying to separate them from the unsettling, darkly-rumbling whispers that always accompany these visions. It is a technique you have managed to perfect over the past couple of weeks. Through careful concentration, you can sift the images from the words and piece them together like a puzzle... though, of course, the puzzle is always simply part of a much larger game.

You manage to catch the images, so vivid and real, even as they dance before your mind′s eye.

A world of dust and ruin. 

A world of snow and soft light. 

A world of murky water and clear blue skies.

A world of bronze and gears.

You describe these brief worlds to Jill, and she nods slowly. She says nothing, but you know just by that slow nod that she has somehow seen the same worlds in whatever visions have been granted to her.

_I feel that we may have to journey to find them. Yes, I am almost certain of that. Perhaps... perhaps we meet here, in the violet kingdom, and then travel together to find them_? That makes sense, from a storytelling perspective—it has been quite some time since you enjoyed a work of fiction, but you recall that one hundred percent of stories start the same way. ′Someone wants something, and they go looking for it.′ You want answers; Doctor Brinner wants his family back; Jill wants to ensure Doctor Brinner′s continued well-being... you are sure that Greg wants something out of this whole affair as well, but he is somewhat of an enigma sometimes. Only by journeying or questing does one obtain such things. It is not only a safe assumption, it′s an unavoidable, concrete fact.

All that′s left is to chart this quest properly. You never liked that the characters in books just stumbled around at random attempting to achieve their objectives—it seemed like a tremendous waste of time. Well, you will have none of _that_ nonsense, thank you very much—this is going to be the most efficient, organized quest ever embarked upon.

You take the last sip from the bottle of wine offered to you and gently set it on the floor between your feet before continuing.

_We must collect our colleagues, find the stone beds... to what end, I do not know, but I am certain that an upcoming dream projection will reveal necessary direction. Have you received any visions through these projections_?

_No_ , she lies. You frown at her, and she flops over on the bed. The bunny ears on her slippers flop indignantly as well, as if mimicking their owners′ movement. _Hey, don′t gimme that look_.

_I suppose that was why you had the earplugs in when I arrived_ , you surmise. _To filter out the rumblings and the accompanying visions—as it seems that you can′t have one without the other_.

_Get outta my head, 2b_ , she jokes weakly. You assume that her visions must be too terrible to speak aloud, as opposed to your own reasonably pleasant portents of faraway fairy-lands. All the more reason to share, you think; forewarned is forearmed.

_I will, so long as you tell me... What do you see there_?

There is a long pause. You let the question hang in the suddenly tense air and pretend to peruse the Beksinski prints on the walls, waiting for a reply. You feel as though you′re playing Bad Cop, and you wish that Doctor Brinner were around to play Good Cop. Your mother always told you that you would get more flies with honey, but you never quite learned how to honey your words. Every time you′ve ever tried, they came out sounding disgustingly insincere. Better that you speak plainly; that way, your words are always sincere, even if they sting with vinegar.

_Bad endings_ , she says after about five minutes of tense silence. _Always bad endings—and they feel so_ real, _like it actually happened... I′ve called Dr B twice to check up on him, to make sure I′m just having some wicked hallucinations, and that none of y′all are actually dropping dead on me_.

_Perish the thought_ , you say. She rolls her eyes so hard you fear they might swivel back to peer into her own brain. Again you begin to suspect that you are not very good at banter. But it′s not important. What′s important is preparation and efficiency. Preparation and efficiency will keep you safe. Witty dialogue will not. _How do the bad endings end up that way_?

_Different ways_ , she replies. _I just get these visions... Dr B getting gutted by these giant lizard things... or you being impaled by a thousand quills by this big screaming monster... Greg choking to death on poison gas..._

_Curious, I think, that you never seem to be the focus of these visions_ , you say.

_I thought so too... I′m just a bystander in these visions, and then there′s this whirring, shuffling noise, and things start to swirl and... rewind, I guess, and then I wake up_ , she says, flopping back onto the bed and staring at the ceiling. _That′s why_...

There is another long pause. You wait for her to speak again. Instead, you get a loud, inelegant snore. It sounds like a chainsaw with a loose chain ripping through the trunk of a dead pine. Something must have stirred her awake on the other side, leaving this dream-projection to sleep until she is needed once more.

On your way over to the window, you pause just briefly to throw a pink skull-festooned quilt over her. She snores again and rolls over, slobbering on the quilt. Well, that′s gratitude for you.

You slip out through the window (it′s unseemly to lurk around a lady′s room while she′s sleeping) and hover in the air between the towers briefly, observing your surroundings. You are still sound asleep—the real you, anyway—so you think you will take advantage of the time to map the planet as thoroughly as you can. Perhaps in the process, you can speak with some of the inhabitants—you have never tried to do so before. Or perhaps you can locate your other two colleagues. Surely they have their own towers—on the other side of the moon, or maybe down on the planet below. In all of your various journeys, you have never gone looking for them; you didn′t even think to check the neighboring tower until Jill brought it up earlier. You just never thought much about it.

But now you _are_ thinking about it, since the situation is somewhat pressing. You should find them as soon as possible, collect their information, and catalogue it as well as you can given the circumstances.

You let yourself descend towards the planet below, slowly and carefully, stopping just short of the deadly-looking spires. You look around the rolling, glittering streets for one of the chess-men decked out in the most frivolous clothing. Hideous and impractical fashion seems to denote some manner of status on this strange planet—you have found that, the poorer and more horrifyingly mismatched the fashion choices, the higher-up in rank they are. You shudder to think what they would look like all laid out on a board for a game. It would be the most garish chess game ever—truly, an unpardonable offense to the entire notion of a stoic and intelligent strategy game.

Fortunately, they do not appear to be meant for some bizarre giant-scale chess game, at least not that you′ve seen. They merely patrol the streets, yell at you for flying too low near buildings, and grumble about ′coffin stuffers′ and ′graveyard cloggers.′ Sometimes, if they′re in a charitable mood, they will grudgingly give you directions... though you′ve found less and less reason to ask for them recently. You know the world quite well now. You are not a man given to boasting, but you feel confident that, if you so desired, you could probably find your way across the planet blindfolded and suffer only a minimum of injury in the process.

You locate one of the chess-men, garbed in the worst outfit imaginable, including a crisp and glittering white robe draped over ugly and clunky light armor, which is further layered over a brightly-colored circus strongman′s leotard. It is all topped off by a squashed fedora resting at a slight angle atop his narrow yet globular head. You wonder if perhaps the proximity to the darkness and whispering madness has had an adverse effect on the citizenry. Jill and yourself receive visions, but, judging from the shameful _mess_ before you, it seems that they have received _utter madness_.

_Pardon me_ , you say politely, trying to disregard the horror before you.

He focuses his marble-white eyes on you. _Coffin-stuffer_ , he grumbles. You take this rude acknowledgment as a prompt to continue.

_My name is Leo, and I would like to know if I might find another pair of towers—you see, I′ve only just come down from the towers up there—_

He interrupts you to say that he knows who you are and where you′re from, which you find unsettling, but he′s a policeman, or something like it, so you suppose that is his business and his duty as a civil servant. He says can you hurry the fuck up, he′s got shit to do, not that he fucking wants to do any of it.

So you oblige with all speed.

_I am looking for my colleagues—one would be a man around his late thirties or early forties, with thinning sandy hair and a hat not unlike yours, though his would be in much better repair, and the other would be a man in his late twenties, trim, with curly dark brown hair and olive skin. Have you seen them about_?

He says of course he knows where they are, they′re a total pain in his ass just by virtue of their very existence. Just like the rest of you coffin-stuffers.

_Well, might I be able to convince you to share that information_? you ask.

He rolls his eyes and shrugs his narrow shoulders. Like he gives a fuck if it gets out. He says they′re over on Prospit.

_Prospit_?

He ignores your query and tells you that he′s got some knives to sharpen. For stabbin′ some Prospitian graveyard-cloggers but good.

What a peculiar man.

You let him go about his business, lest he produce one of these knives and use you as a practice dummy, and fly onward in search of your colleagues once more. Perhaps you will have better luck with a different police officer. Say, one less inclined towards homicide. Soon after, you spy one, busily scrawling a ticket and stuffing it in another chess-man′s hands, with a firm scolding regarding the law and how they′re there to be followed and ensure the smooth flow of a society. The second chess-man protests that he was only jaywalking, but this Assiduous Ranger has no time for such nonsense, it appears; he sends the man away with his ticket. 

You like this fellow already; he seems to have his priorities in order.

_Pardon me_ , you say, descending towards the Assiduous Ranger. He is slightly hunched and frowning at you suspiciously. _I can tell that you are a busy man, so I will do my best not to delay you. I was in search of my colleagues, only to be told that they are on ′Prospit.′ Might I ask you for some directions_?

He says that he can′t even _begin_ to list the ways in which that′s illegal, not to mention kind of impossible for you guys, isn′t it, and goes on further to ask if he has to throw you in the slammer just to be safe.

_Slammer_?

He goes yeah, it′s what you call jail when you′re extra-mad at crimes, get with it.

_Ah, I see_ , you say, nodding.

He tells you that there′s a war going on, so you can′t be too careful, right?

_This is the first I′ve heard of it_ , you say with a thoughtful frown. It would certainly explain why so many of the citizens are so very tense and agitated all of the time.

He says there′s a war and it′s steadily heating up, so we have to keep the Scourge and the Scribe safe on their own planets. The Queen made a law and everything, and he′s here to enforce it, come hell or high water.

_Oh_ , you say. _I was thoroughly unaware. I apologize for my ignorance_.

He says he′ll let it slide just this once, but you′d better not disappoint him again. You say, oh, no, sir, never. And he says okay, just as long as you understand that Prospit is totally off-limits as of today. And you say okay, and he says okay, and he lets you go about your business once more.

You suppose that, in a rollicking adventure story, the type you loved so much as a boy, the hero might ignore his promise to an authority figure and go off exploring anyway, but you don′t. You are a man of your word, and you can′t let that slide simply because this is a dream. What sort of man would you be if you were not consistent in your manner? 

Instead, you fly back the way that you came, up towards your tower once more. Though you cannot continue the search for your colleagues here, you can aid them in other ways.

You can listen to the whispers. Invite the visions. Read the signs.

(in your heart, you hope that you wake up soon; your colleagues cannot wait forever, and they need someone working to guide them, someone to make sense of all this chaos. And what do you do with your life if not this—picking through the rubble and the ash, and finding the answers that people so sorely need?)

You settle down in the overstuffed armchair next to the tremendous wine rack, a comforting bottle of your favorite red at your feet, just in case you need something to take the edge off, and close your eyes.

And you wait.

And you listen.

And you wait.

And you listen.

And you wait.

And

you 

listen

and

 

~

_and then you can see_

_feel_

_the breeze the pressure the air the light the heat_

_the world of hissing steam and grinding gears_

_the world of crunching snow and glowing lamps_

_the world of searing heat and scraping sand_

_the world of bottomless marshes and razed forests_

_you trace doctor brinner′s endless stream of footprints through the swirling sand_

_you hear jill′s every word passed with her sprite at the top of her stairs_

_(′you know I hate the riddle shit but otherwise you′re kinda cool′)_

_(′little sister, I have simply prepared you, as I must. It is my role. Now, fulfill your role.′)_

_(′okay whatever I guess′)_

_and the sprite gives her a gift of a pendant_

_you see greg_

_crouching_

_as he readies himself to leap through the gate_

_his ridiculous ′holy staplegun′ at the ready_

_his hair is unkempt and his shoes are scuffed_

_but his smile is broad and almost glowing_

_you try to follow him_

_look through the gate_

_but_

_there′s_

_a_

_flash_

_and_

~

 

You wake with a start and roll off the bed in a startlingly inelegant way, landing in a heap of tangled sheets and covers.

It takes you a moment to remember where you are and what you were doing, but once you have grasped onto this thread of the plot, you get to your feet and hastily throw the crumpled pile of bedclothes into the corner of your bare-bones bachelor bedroom. You hate to look such a slob, but you have business to attend to. Such images burning in your mind! Such clarity and depth! Such terrible beauty! You simply must communicate this to your colleagues straightaway.

Perhaps you were thinking about visions and signs all wrong—before you significantly lowered your high skeptical standards, you mean. Prior to this, it was, in fact, all complete hokum—cold-reading and table-rapping and all that. But now... now that you are privy to these strange experiences in this increasingly strange world, perhaps they′re nothing more than another valuable source of information. You would do the same things in the course of your own routine investigations in the real world. Listen to the locals. Note details. Make maps and diagrams and charts.

And as it so frequently happens in your investigations, you find that you need more complete information. You need details to fill in the bigger picture, figure out that big cosmic order of things. What is Prospit? Where? What are the other strange worlds that you saw in your trance? The stone beds? The symbols?

You don′t know.

Even with this new and welcome source of information, you just don′t know. There are no great hints to their significance and role in your lives, no context through which you might interpret them. You have your theories, and quite detailed they are. Theories are good starting points, certainly, but there is no way that you can properly advise and lead your colleagues on theory alone.

Doctor Brinner would tell you to simply take a leap of faith, that fortune favors the bold, but that is one respect where you will have to politely disagree with the good doctor. Leaps of faith, in your experience, tend to be rash and frivolous, and only lead to tragedy—a broken heart, a bite out of your bank account, or even worse. Fortune does not favor the bold; it only toys with them, batting them back and forth the way a cat does an injured mouse.

For your part, you have had all the tragedy you can stomach, and you are certain the same is true of your remaining friends. You will have no more on your watch. You will turn this confused mess into a well-oiled machine of great purpose.

And you will all live long and prosperous lives, by whatever standard that may be in this new world.

You send a short and sternly-worded message to each of your colleagues directing them to stay put until you have explored further and returned with more thorough information and directions. You also include the basic framework of the theories that you are exploring and what methods you will use to test them. 

Jill responds playfully, inquiring as to why you should have all the fun, but wishes you well and says that she will keep an eye out for you in the violet kingdom. 

Greg thanks you profusely for the chance to rest, and says that some peace of mind would do him some good—his nerves are shot.

And Doctor Brinner maintains his worrying silence.

You Captchalogue your laptop once more, check the itemized list two more times, and step out of your house, staring up at the neat silver staircase winding its way into the infinite blackness above.

You look back at your little house—so comfortable, so familiar, so inviting. It′s filled with all of the best things in the world, in your world, and it′s a shame that it should all go to waste, isn′t it? So much wine going unappreciated. So much food going uneaten. So many books going unread. Such a shame. Such a pity.

For a moment, you strongly consider going back inside and returning to your bedroom to sleep, hoping you wake up from this mad new world and waken once more into your world, the one that makes sense, the one that you know.

You dearly wish that you could go back.

But you straighten your tie and smooth your jacket.

And you begin walking up the stairs.

You don′t look back again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the delay! I have had an incredibly busy summer.


	9. -- Land of Automatons and Frogs --

The gears in God′s machinery grind and groan.  
  
 _Rust screams and moans between them._  
  
Copper creaks and bronze whispers.  
  
 _Steam hisses out from split valves and broken fixtures._  
  
A crushingly thick fog coalesces and hangs in the warm air.  
  
 _It barely parts for you as you pass through._  
  
Beyond the fog, you hear larger gears grinding and clanking, and feel the heavy thud of iron feet against the obsidian road on which you stand.  
  
 _It parts for them—those tall, clanking automatons, jerking like marionettes with tangled-up strings, their merciless iron eyes searching, searching, searching..._  
  
Around their feet, little white rabbits dart away in fear, pausing only momentarily once they see you.  
  
 _They whisper to each other, nervous, excited, before darting off again to the safety of the thick shroud of snow-white steam._

* * *

  
  
You give chase at once.


	10. INTERLUDE: Footsteps

At first, you were happy to see the little purple gila monsters that people this desert world.

That lasted right up until you spoke to one.

Yes, it was strange to encounter talking animals, but you, like your compatriots, find yourself suddenly much more accepting of the most ludicrous nonsense this evening. It doesn't even strike you as silly to seek out edification from the great big lizards eyeing you from the sun-baked sandstone formations dotting this land.

Initially you had taken refuge from the baking heat and glaring white light enveloping the world (was it the sun? it never seemed to rise or set, only to get hotter) beneath one such sandstone formation. It did not do much good. Except you did fall asleep, and you could have slept forever. You are uneasily certain that you would have, had the gila monster not hissed at you while you dozed.

It was quite fortunate, then, that he woke you.

You have an appointment to keep.

You apologized to the gila monster politely, then inquired as to how you might get to that elsewhere, and if there was any water on the way there, even just a little muddy puddle-you are running quite low on your reserved libations.

For a long time, he didn′t speak.

He merely regarded you with those flat, beady little eyes, first as if he were eyeing a nice meal, and then as if he were staring straight through you down to the whirling sands below.

You patiently waited for him.

And waited.

And waited.

While waiting, you took a careful, measured sip of the unmentionable contents of one of your rumpled and unsightly hats.

He looked at you again and scoffed, disgusted.

″Gent of Hope? Gent of _Piss_ , more like. Piss _off_.″

″There is no need for such brutish language, sir,″ you said haughtily.

As a gentleman, you have never been known to overstay your welcome.

You walk.

And you walk.

And you walk.

And you walk.

The thick black soles of your shoes press burning footprints into the red-gold sand as you trudge, slouching, towards the endless horizon.

You have an appointment to keep.

You may be fashionably late, but you will keep it, come hell or high water.

"Ha," you say weakly, sounding rather like a sickly bullfrog.

You're well on your way to plowing through the former.

You are praying for the latter.

But you won't dwell on it.

The thrilling tale can be recounted in amusing detail to your compatriots later, when you meet up with them. Wherever. Whenever. Someday. Maybe never. No, that's no way to think. Chin up, David. Onward and upward. Keep calm and carry on. Except it's hard to do with the heat and light and No don't think about it, don't even think, just keep walking. Keep walking.

You have an appointment to keep.

All these rest breaks and naps, they're just slowing you down. That's right. You can't stop again. No stopping. No shade breaks. If you take another shade break, you'll curl up in the relative peace, pull your makeshift muffler over your face to block out the light, and... no, you can't, that's all.

The squish of the thick, soft red-gold sand beneath your thick-soled shoes provides an almost calming rhythm, just barely audible.

Thump- _shuff_ , thump- _shuff_ , thump- _shuff_ , thump- _shuff_.

Pleasantly distracting. Dizzying. But everything is dizzying. The sun-if it is the sun. The heat. The wind. The whirling sand.

Thump- _shuff_ , thump- _shuff_ , thump- _shuff_ , thump- _shuff_.

The rhythm is thrown off when you look down at your shoes and see them doubled, waving, like a strangely complex new dance step. Vaguely, you remember that you took Lila ballroom-dancing once, and neither of you were any good at it, so you stuck to your frantic wiggling and finger-snapping to the big band classics instead.

"Ha," you say again. It is all you can manage, with a throat like cotton and sandpaper, and even that minor exertion is enough to take it out of you. You cough into your makeshift muffler, spraying a thick clot of red sand and dark blood from the back of your throat, and collapse to the ground, rolling inelegantly down a high sand dune and kicking up an abstract spiral of the red-gold sand in your wake.

You seriously consider simply not getting back up, of resting your head in the hot sand until it all goes away.

However...

You have an appointment to keep.

It takes several tries for you to rise to your feet. When, at last, you do, you sway side-to-side, back-and-forth, sun-drunk. Your fingers jump and twitch as you try to adjust your tie underneath the muffler, and you drop your hat several times when you try to return it to its proper position atop your sandy, thinning hair. Hardly the best condition in which to meet your friends, but at this point, you will simply be glad to reach them alive, deliver a short but polite and sincere apology for your tardiness, and promptly collapse at their feet. No, strike that last one. You will do no such thing, as if you were a common drunkard flopping over into a greasy gutter. You are a gentleman, after all, and you will be greeting two other fine gentlemen and a lady. No, you will reach them with a smile and your typical affable manner. Accept no substitutes. Never. Ha.

Eventually your tie is adequately adjusted, and your hat is in the right place.

You begin to walk again-haltingly, clumsily. But walk you do.

And walk.

And walk.

And walk.


	11. --Land of Snow and Lanterns--

 

_The gray-blue air is thick and cold, loud with the silence of a snowy night_.

 

Snow elegantly waltzes down through the dim yellow light of the iron lamppost nearby, each large flake casting a tiny gray shadows for only a few slow, dreamy seconds.

 

It all settles into the hilly landscape carpeting the quiet world.

 

_But the silence is sinister._

 

It whispers, and you shiver, not from the cold, but the _sound_...

 

The sound is dampened by the shroud of snow covering the dead world, but it rings in your ears loud and clear.

 

_It shifts and ticks and shuffles, blown by the icy wind_.

 

Beneath the dull wind and the whispering snow and the heavy gray night, the weakly-flickering lamps jump and shudder and fade, and the world swims and shudders.

 

You don′t like it.

 

To dispel the silence, you step forward into the dim light of another lamppost illuminating the half-hidden path, and the snow crunches thickly underfoot.

 

_You catch sight of tiny pawprints in the snow, and you follow them into the darkness of the gray-green forest_.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You feel as if you′ve not only stepped into another world—you′ve stepped into another time.

 

Second grade, sitting in your closet, hoping—praying—that you would tumble through the wall at the back and find yourself amid the world of Talking Beasts and benevolent magical lions and snowy witches. Your daydreams were always full to the brim of fantasies of being a clever rogue living in the woods surrounding Lantern Waste, secretly battling the White Witch. Like a little-girl Robin Hood saving all of the little talking animals. It seemed like much more fun than being a Queen, anyway, and a lot less work, too.

 

Most of your afternoons between the ages of about six and twelve were spent poking at mirrors and closets and slipping on rings found in old dusty jewelry boxes at yard sales, just in case, just in case there was some kind of enchantment that would get you to Narnia or Wonderland or Middle-Earth and the adventures that awaited you.

 

Well, now you′re here, you guess.

 

You′re not really sure it was worth the wait and the trouble.

 

But you′re here now, and you don′t think you can get back, or at least 2b hasn′t indicated otherwise just yet.

 

Of course, he also indicated that the circle led to a world of steam and heat and pipes and clockwork... so it′s entirely possible that he′s either wrong, or just in another part of the world. You hope you can join him there soon, because man, it′s cold. You didn′t plan for this eventuality. You just jumped through wearing your pajamas, thinking that would be suitable enough. It′s just shorts and a T-shirt and socks and slippers, after all. You go down to the corner store in just such an ensemble all the time.

 

Now you′re just kind of hoping you don′t freeze to death.

 

But the game wouldn′t let you... would it?

 

Welp, that′s just one more hypothesis you gotta examine. You′re a woman of science now, not a daydreaming little girl.

 

Daydreaming won′t save Dr B and 2b and the other guy.

 

Only science will.

 

Or at least your kind of science. Taking things apart and seeing what makes them tick. Or what stopped the ticking.

 

Right. Priorities set.

 

Your mind is back on track.

 

And you begin your trek into the snowy forest, with only your own footsteps for company.

 


	12. -- Land of Peat and Marshes --

 

You find yourself in... well, you′re not sure how to describe this, because you were never much of a writer. Or a reader of fanciful fiction. Mostly you read business and technical manuals, and it′s somewhat affected your imagination and your stock of glowing adjectives and poetical prose.

 

If you were pressed to describe it, though, you would probably go with ′a big nasty mess of a swamp.′ Or a marsh. You were never all that clear on the difference between the two—maybe one is saltwater and the other freshwater?

 

Also it smells to high heaven.

 

A weird thought occurs to you, that it′s a ′green′ smell, the smell of living things, of birth and life and rot and the things that live in that rot, and really, once you get over the initial shock of the stench, it′s not that bad a smell.

 

Then your normal thought processes return, and you note that, if you were so inclined, you could make a nice golf course out of this area.

 

And maybe that′s how you should think of it.

 

Don′t think of it as wandering through a strange new world—think of it as looking for your ball on a difficult pond course.

 

That helps with the nerves some.

 

You relax your tensed shoulders, loosen your vice-grip on the golfclub in your hand, and reach for your smart-phone to pester Dr Brinner.

 

 

 

* * *

 

\--officeurchin1280 (OU) began pestering fedorafreak (FF)! –

 

 

 

 

OU: I′ve found myself in a marshy—swampy?—area.

 

OU: I don′t see anybody else around at the moment, but I will press on in my search!

 

OU: Although I suppose it would help if I knew what any of you looked like... ah well. I will simply be on the lookout for the most dapper and proper men around!

 

OU: Er, not to be excluding the lady present!

 

OU: I suppose I should have inquired about her, but I felt it would be rude and unprofessional to ask.

 

OU: It just doesn′t seem the sort of thing one should ask of a lady one does not personally know, no?

 

OU: I am certain I will recognize her regardless.

 

OU: I shall see two finely-dressed dapper gentlemen and a lady escorting them, and immediately inquire, ′duskyDahlia, I presume?′

 

OU: Enough of my rambling, I suppose.

 

OU: I′ve been procrastinating.

 

OU: I do so hope to see all of you soon!

 

OU: And I shall have coffee to share! Perhaps not very fresh, but it will do wonders for our spirits!

 

OU: Please be safe!

 

 

\-- officeurchin1280 ceased pestering fedorafreak! –

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

He has not responded in some time, but you feel that it is safe to assume that he is well. You couldn′t imagine him otherwise, with his constant state of generally buoyant determination. Yes, that seems like a set of adjectives well-suited to such a man. He doesn′t let anything stop him, and you admire him for that. You wish you could be the same way.

 

Maybe you could, if you tried. If you practiced.

 

But it wouldn′t fit your position. Heirs and business moguls don′t get to be truly gentle men. Always gotta be vicious, always gotta be fast and hard and sharp. Gotta get the other company before they get you, and you can′t just give up and run away, for so many reasons, and you get so tired of all this rigamarole, day in and day out, with no end, no way out.

 

You wish you really were just a simple coffee boy at a tiny tax firm in Rialto. It would have its own set of woes, surely—no life passes by without pain—but it would be a different set of pains.

 

That was why you made up Officeurchin1280.

 

Because it was a way of being who you wanted to be, without being scolded for perceived weakness and laziness. But you still feel awful for lying to the people who have come to be your closest, most beloved friends.

 

As your expensive shoes squish down into the dark mossy mud, the thought of freedom occurs to you once more, as it does perhaps a million times a day, but there is a great finality to it, like closing the cover to a dismal and dreary book and shelving it somewhere that you can never reach again.

 

You′re neither an heir nor a business mogul now.

 

It doesn′t matter.

 

Nothing from the old world matters now.

 

You′re all starting from square one.

 

Your mouth twitches—the ′Navarro sneer,′ as dubbed by those top business magazines, disappears completely, replaced by a broad, toothy grin. Your face is not accustomed to the shape or size of such a smile, but oh, Lord, you′re free now. You can _get_ used to it.

 

You roll up your sleeves and kick off those terrible uncomfortable expensive shoes, letting them sink into the brackish black water of the surrounding swamp. Frightfully improper, yes, but you want to know what it feels like. Just to do what you want without fear, without people telling you ′no.′ 

 

Without _yourself_ telling you ′no.′

 

There may still be trouble in telling your friends about your previous falsehood, but for right now, it doesn′t seem to matter all that much. You′ll cross that bridge when you come to it.

 

Right now, all you want to do is take a walk on this narrow spit of land through the marsh (bog? swamp?) Get your feet kinda dirty. Drive a few golfballs.

 

You′ve got all the time in the world to enjoy your freedom.

 

You have to make the most of it.

 


End file.
